i'M Sick
by drano
Summary: Freddie gets Sam sick, but that's only the beginning of his troubles as they all try to weather the strains and pains of High School, new boyfriends and girlfriends, true love, and finding the right kind of courage.
1. Prologue

"Kiss you? Dude, I'd rather – Not do that at this time, but I appreciate your kind offer."

--Sam Puckett

--

i'M Sick of Prologues – Chap. - i

--

It happened, just like that. That's really just how simple or complicated it can come out to be. I can't even possibly begin to explain how earth shattering it is, and it is earth shattering. More like pulverizing actually, but it's only that way to me. There's no way I can relate how this whole thing feels. I would like to say that it's earth shattering for her too, but I honestly have no idea. From all apparent appearances that's not the case.

And I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Because to start I have no idea how I feel about everything that led up to it; I'm not even exactly sure how it happened.

My memory of the whole minute or so in question is more or less a blur of confusion and feelings. All sorts of feelings that would probably need a whole team of psychologists just to begin to sort them out.

It started with words, words that didn't matter and rarely do of course, and sitting in front of the computer _way _too close to each other. Why? I have no idea.

More words, arguing over something I don't even remember. In any case, those words are important because in the mean time they have us staring at each other for at least a solid thirty seconds.

Teenage boy and teenage girl staring at each other while passionately arguing about nonsense at that kind of proximity—yeah, you do the math.

I don't know which one of us fired first. In a nuclear MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction) scenario it doesn't really matter. But in either case I discover that she has criminally soft lips.

Oh, just to clarify if it's unclear, this isn't just her lips. It's mine too, as in, connected to each other.

This is about the time when that football-sized team of psychologists is desperately calling their managers in the hopes of being traded.

There are sweet, warm and squishy Valerie kisses, and then there are Sam Puckett kisses. (Well, okay, kisses being singular since I don't actually know how either kind stack up in plural form.)

I'm just happy I didn't pass out.

Anger, hate, elation, joy. Those kinds of emotions would've been easy. I'm still trying to come up with adjectives to describe what actually hit me.

And in an absurdly cautious sort of way, I would have to say that it was an overall slightly more positive kind of emotional mushroom cloud. But hey, give me a break. It's only natural, I mean I'm a fifteen year old guy for crying out loud. The hormones made me enjoy it.

Okay, enjoy is a relative kind of word. It's like how those circus guys who walk on spikes or hot coals might sometimes enjoy their job.

Sam's always had an alluring kind of dangerous to her. I'll give her that much.

But back to the story, or massive mistake, however you want to put it, things ended pretty quickly and unspectacularly.

I'm guessing it lasted five, maybe ten seconds tops.

Oh, that's not that long, you may dare to think? Let me rephrase that.

I'm guessing that the kiss I shared with _Samantha eternally mocks my guts Puckett _lasted five, maybe ten seconds tops.

In what happened next I'm probably not the best witness. If the whole pre-kiss to kiss time frame is a blur in my memory, then the proceeding ten or so seconds is an unintelligible smudge.

More words, this time less passionate, maybe even emotionless. Definitely even less important than usual, essentially boiling down to awkward filler.

She says something either directly or indirectly insulting, maybe daring to reference kissing or some related facilities, maybe not. I say something in response, probably even less up to par than usual. Hey, I was still on the verge of passing out at this point, give me a break.

And then she was gone.

I mostly spent my excess nervous energy pacing and muttering incoherently to myself before Carly finally came down from getting ready to go eat.

_Where in the bloody T-drive had she been ten minutes ago?_

I clearly remember, being one of the few things I do, her asking me what's wrong.

_Did she have a word processor ready?_

But of course I'm not going to tell my dream girl what happened. So I just say something about Sam not wanting to go out to eat with us anymore.

She asked something to the effect of whether Sam was crazy.

Yes, yes she is.

But at this point the narrative becomes relatively unimportant, except needless to say I was a twittering mess up until … well, I actually probably still am a twittering mess. I mean I've seen Sam be nicer to Gibby's locker with a sledgehammer than she was with my vulnerable teenage hormones. Stupid hormones anyway.

Understand, this is something that was _never _supposed to happen. Our friendship is unstable enough as it is already.

Back to the narrative, things are pretty tense for me when Monday rolls around. The only problem is Sam didn't bother to roll around at all (which is actually a pretty accurate description of how she approaches Monday mornings). All day. Carly called her cell phone, but I didn't get a chance to talk to her either for the rest of the day.

I was beginning to feel sick about this whole thing. And when I got home I realized I really wasn't kidding around. I emptied my whole lunch's worth of lasagna into the toilet. I spent the next few hours also getting rid of everything I'd eaten in the past two or so weeks into the special vomit dispenser that my mom had tearfully supplied. After those few hours and vowing I'd never ingest anything edible again if God had mercy on me and either let me live or just killed me outright, I felt somewhat better.

That was until the fateful phone call of 9:30 P.M.

I caught snippets of it in the other room, but was still in no way prepared for when my mom came in to break the news. I suppose every nuclear detonation has its fallout.

It seemed Sam had been sick all day as well with suspiciously similar symptoms.

_Uh oh._

And since her mom was naturally afraid that the cat might catch it as well, the two oblivious harbingers of doom, aka our moms, decided/unwittingly conspired that it would be best if Sam would come over to our place until she got better.

Goodbye cruel world.

-

-

Well, I'm kind of jumping in with this one since I don't have most of it done yet and aren't even sure about where some of it's going. But we're going to see what happens and hope for the best. If things go according to plan I shoudl have a lot more free time in the near future than I have. So I hope you enjoy it.


	2. Chapter 1

"He was smart to run."

--Sam Puckett

i'M Already Sick of This – Chap. i

It was one of those things that seemed far enough out of the range of the accepted usual that I half didn't believe it would actually happen. But evidently Sam's mom didn't feel the same way about what passed for the accepted usual, and evidently didn't feel all that strongly about the rigors of following the speed limit either. She wasted no time in driving my impending doom over; she didn't even bother to walk Sam up to our door.

And then she was there.

And she looked like crap. Which was probably the relative equivalent of what I looked like too.

And that's saying something, because really, being completely honest for a moment (in a never-tell-under-pain-of-death kind of way), I generally find her to be at least passably pretty. If she wasn't, I probably wouldn't be in this predicament and we would've been perfectly happy to keep our saliva to ourselves.

So I found myself feeling ridiculously awkward as I sat at the kitchen table, trying not to think about anything related to saliva (is there a nice word for spit?). This was done while also trying to choke down the legendary Benson cough syrup (which can be found in some stores labeled as Castor oil) because it seemed to be a plausible excuse for not having to look at her.

Sam quietly came in, her beat up sleeping bag under one arm and a plastic Mall-Mart sack of clothes in the other.

Seeing her there like that at this hour brought all kinds of different feelings to my gut, beyond the whole fearing for my life stuff. It was almost like elementary again, when I used to have kids come over to my place or vice versa. That had been long enough ago that it was a nostalgic sort of feeling; I can't remember the last time when someone spent the night at my place.

And the chief reason for that immediately swooped down on Sam. My mom wasted no time in giving all sorts of sympathies and promises, to which Sam responded civilly and even graciously, but with a definite note of tiredness.

I hunkered down in what sparse shelter my cup of family legacy offered, resisting a grimace as my mom went on and on. I was just glad that I had convinced her not to wear the viral masks she stocked, at least for now. But it wasn't as if this sort of thing was surprising.

The last time I'd gotten sick it had nearly killed me (and not because I'd actually been that sick, I mean it had only been a minor chest cold). My mom had even put the priest on speed dial in case he needed to administer emergency last rites to me. We aren't even Catholic for crying out loud!

I had to hand it to Sam though, not only was she doing a near flawless job at keeping the wane but consistently polite smile on her face as my mom doddered on, but she was also doing a perfect imitation of having a good excuse for looking everywhere else but at me.

"—I really do appreciate this, Mrs. Benson," Sam said, valiantly trying to break into my mom's rambling, which was the showing unhealthy signs of veering off into a SARS tangent.

"Oh, and you poor dear." My mom wrapped her arm around Sam as she led her away from the door, "I just hope that your mother doesn't catch it too. She seemed awfully concerned."

"Yeah, it would be too bad if her or Snickers caught it," Sam said. Fortunately mom didn't seem to catch the sarcasm.

"But you must be so tired, dear. Freddie, come and show Samantha where your room is. We have an air mattress already laid out for you and—" I caught the significant look she shot Sam's admittedly fairly ratty sleeping bag. "—Blankets, we have lots of blankets ... so don't worry about—"

"No, that's okay," Sam hugged her sleeping bag a little tighter to herself, "I really don't need them."

I felt something.

"Of course not, sweetie," mom answered in a blatantly appeasing way. I knew that tone well enough that it wouldn't surprise me all that terribly if Sam's sleeping bag somehow happened to _accidentally _find its way into a dumpster—or a vat of bleach. "Now Freddie will show you where the bathroom and his room are. I'll be there in a few minutes."

I stood up and nearly flinched when Sam turned her haggard look at me for the first time. But she merely gestured, not quite impatiently, for me to lead on.

My mom was just finishing calling after us something about bringing another puke dispenser when I heard Sam mutter from behind me as we walked down the hall.

"You've got a room? I always thought they just plugged you in at night."

But it was done in such a weary way that it made me feel awful. And not for the reasons her insults usually did.

It was and wasn't all that odd that Sam had never seen my room. Not that there was much to see, or reason for her to have before. The air mattress that we'd set up took up most of the open space. My fairly rushed and honestly quite panicked rearranging of my tech equipment left a lot to be desired, but I thought I'd done a decent job. That was considering I had just found out that the most vicious girl in my life, the one I'd just gotten sick due to a hormone induced situation of awkwardness, was going to be spending an indefinite amount of time within easy killing distance of me.

So I had been admittedly expecting a lot more than the emotionless way she reviewed my room as she came in behind me and dropped her things on the air mattress. I think I did catch something about "Radioshack" under her breath, but it wouldn't have surprised me if it had been an unconscious comment for her.

I almost made the mistake of saying something inconsequential as I fidgeted. I had no idea what to do, much less say. She was just standing there, staring down and slowly getting her stuff laid out.

But she _wasn't _inflicting bodily or verbal harm on me, so that could be taken as a good sign, right? I'd more or less envisioned that our whole oral contact issue would be an off topic subject, punishable by death or worse. But this was ... promising? Maybe?

For the first time I experienced the possibility that we might actually be able to talk about this whole mess calmly and rationally, like normal friends might. And it was—not crazy. Actually, as I sat there in what was for all intents and purposes probably the most awkward silence of my life, I realized that I _did _want to talk about it. To someone at least, maybe not necessarily her. But maybe we could just talk, sort it out. Make it not so ridiculously confusing, or maybe even—

Sam turned and walked out the door.

—Or just walk away without a word. That worked too. I was down with that, in fact—

The bathroom door slammed shut.

—Whoops. I'd forgotten to show her where the bathroom was. But that would've required _words_, or at least coherent gesturing, which she didn't seem to be all that amiable towards. And besides, she'd apparently located it without too much trouble, and I belatedly realized that she'd taken some clothes with her.

But then my mom was back, swooping in with all the unnecessary supplies she could carry. My head was hurting enough that I went along with whatever she was talking about. By the time I'd taken the quart of medication she made me swallow, I was ready for bed.

Sam came in a couple of minutes later in her pajamas. She got the abbreviated and milder version (without the quart of medication) of what I'd gotten.

And then my mom was wishing us a good night and telling me that she loved me, like it might be the last chance she'd get.

Sam turned over.

Then the lights were off, and keeping irrational thoughts out of my mind became impossible. Like Sam strangling me in my sleep, for starters. It was actually kind of funny that my mom was trusting me alone in my room with a girl, but I guess that just went to show me just how well she understood my relationship with Sam.

As I lay there, I could just barely make out Sam's outline in the little bit of illumination my night light gave off, and I could almost imagine I could see her side softly moving up and down.

Now I realized that if I had wanted to say anything to her, it would've been best before now. Still, it would be easy to just to call it a night and fall asleep; it would be keeping with how open to conversation she seemed to be. But that's not what I wanted.

I had probably been debating just how stupid it would sound to try to strike up a conversation for about ten minutes when it slipped.

"Sam."

I froze, which was quite unnecessary being in the dark and all, but it didn't feel unnecessary. For several long and fairly terrifying heartbeats I held my breath, waiting and nearly hoping that she wasn't awake. After they had passed without any sign from her, I decided that she had already fallen asleep. I was somewhere between relieved and disappointed.

I still wanted, _needed _to say something. I was definitely not used to this sort of silence between us.

This was important. I had to say something. If I could just decide how I felt about this situation in particular, I could say something about that too.

"I—" I started, a million cheesy scenes from a million cheesy movies about the guy baring his soul to the girl he loves while she was asleep coming to mind. Well, that obviously wasn't the situation here, but it still felt dumb. But it was _easy_. Maybe I could spare myself a couple decade's worth of psychiatric sessions by just saying everything I could and getting it off my chest.

But in the end I wasn't that brave when it came to Sam, even when she was sleeping.

"... I'm really sorry." I settled for that.

"Just shut up and go to sleep." She shifted a little on the mattress, maybe angrily.

So I spent the next few minutes before doing just that wishing I wasn't so stupid. Or that I was anywhere else but here.

--

They were so warm and soft, so smooth.

I knew that I was supposed to be doing something, but how could I? The only thing that kept flashing through my mind was that I needed to stop, right now, right this second. But I didn't. Somewhere I was also thinking about what else I should be doing.

I'd seen more than enough people kissing in the movies and on TV to know that I should be doing _something_ more. But I just kind of held it there, trying to grab my bearings, shove a couple coherent neurons through so that I could just think. But it was so hard to think when I felt this _good_. Everything was kind of warm and fuzzy, and fast. My heart was beating so fast.

It wasn't very long, it never was. Both of us couldn't just sit there not moving—_And why isn't she moving?_

Then, instead of moving away, as she very well should, she moved forward, and kind of off to the side of my mouth. The friction was enough to make everything behind my clenched eyelids light up.

I jerked away.

So it had scared me a little bit. It was a perfectly understandable reaction. She was definitely not supposed to do _that_.

Where everything had been going fast before, it suddenly sped up, like an out of control carousel.

_This isn't how it felt when it happened._

There were words I couldn't understand.

But they weren't what she had actually said at the time. I only could tell this because they felt wrong, and she was standing in front of me looking angry, and livid even. She was shouting at me but I couldn't understand her. Screaming about how stupid I was, how this was wrong, how she could never like me like that. I had ruined everything. But I still couldn't understand the exact words.

I only understood that she was angry at me, and I felt horrible, horrible—

I jerked awake, disturbing the puddle of sweat I was laying in. Everything was burning and my head was pounding.

Sucking in a shaky breath and wishing my throat didn't feel like my tonsils were doing backstrokes in toxic sludge, I rolled over and remembered where I was.

I was in the process of reaching over to my nightstand for the mug of ice water mom had left me when I heard what had probably woken me up.

I cringed as she made a prolonged hurling sound, followed by gagging that was more than loud enough to reach my room. I could faintly see the bathroom light through my half open door.

There were footsteps and plenty of "Sweetie's" as my mom walked by carrying something.

Kicking my blankets away and trying to keep myself from caving into the chills and curling up, I buried my head in my pillow and tried not to hear anymore. I also tried not remember that this wasn't the first time I'd been woken up.

--

Trying to sleep with a bad fever doesn't suck eggs, it sucks rotten eggs. It's that nightmarish span of time that never seems to end. Waking up feeling hot, laying awake feeling horrible, and just wanting to go back to sleep. Then finally going back to sleep and repeating the process in another ten minutes or so. It was even worse this time because I knew that the other occupant in my room wasn't having it quite so good.

When I finally woke to find my door open and enough light to call it morning, with mom down in the kitchen making sounds that meant breakfast and homemade medication, I just lay there staring up at the ceiling for a long time. But eventually all the water I'd drank through the night began to get insistent, and I made to get up.

Big mistake. I swung my feet around a little too quickly, discovering that there was apparently an admission free rock concert going on in my head, a Korean rock concert with no respect for decibel levels or coherency.

But eventually I found myself admitting that I felt sort of better. While allowing my head to settle, I preoccupied myself by 1. waiting for mom to pop in at any moment, 2. staring at Sam, 3. wondering why I had worn socks to bed, and—well okay, staring at Sam mostly.

I had to admit, she looked pretty captivating with a slight frown on her face, breathing deeply and sprawled out all over the mattress. It was kind of refreshing to see her like that. I hoped she would be able to get some relatively peaceful sleep in, and not just because I was thinking of my own lifespan.

She also had this tousled thing going on, which was—kind of ...

I mentally clapped my hands. _Welp, better get going._

I made a quick and stealthy exit just before the laws of the universe caught up with me. My mother was all a flurry of morning routines, precautions, and general over do-it's required to kick the day off properly in an under-the-weather Benson household.

"Mom, can you _please _shut the door?" I was whining by this point, but I'd caved into her every other demand so far. I mean I had agreed to the Hungarian mineral bath, all the while being doused with a massive array of wash ointments and pre-breakfast medications. Bathing at an exactly specified lukewarm temperature actually felt kinda good on my skin, but I was losing my patience with her. "There's a _girl _in our—"

My ranting was interrupted by a spoonful of something.

"Now Freddie-kins, I know you're not feeling well, but that's no reason to shout," mother said distractedly as she withdrew the spoon from my mouth and reloaded from another bottle, "It's not as if you have to worry about her just walking in without knocking—"

So much for thinking my mom knew Sam at all.

"Besides, you need to be quiet sweetie, you don't want to wake her up. Poor little thing had such a rough night. She deserves a good rest." My mother frowned down at her stack of directions. "Well I'm going to need more ammonia dioxidant—"

"What?" I generally made it a rule not to pry after the things that my mother made me ingest. It was just better that way. But ingesting ammonia of any sort didn't sound all that appealing right now. Or ever really.

"Nothing, dear," my mom said briskly as she stood up and turned for the door. "I'll be back in just a second—Oh! ... my. Samantha dear, you're up."

I jerked my head over and found that Sam was indeed within goggling range of me from the doorway. Not to say that she was goggling me, but looking was bad enough. And she was looking with an almost bland sort of expression.

_"Mom!" _I shouted, arms frantically working to cover myself. Thank God it was a bubble bath. "_Close the door!_"

My mom was trying to speak to Sam about something under my shouting as she hastily reached for the door and shut it.

I sat there for a moment, trying to assess the damage.

_Okay, Sam just saw me naked. Not really, not totally, but maybe a little bit. Nope, she couldn't have seen much. Not really, just my upper half, which is bad enough, but it's okay as long as it wasn't anything below that. Bubbles? Check. Angle? Check. Nope, I'm good. But still, was that an unimpressed look she'd had? What the heck was _that_ about?_

I was still shaken up and feeling vaguely scandalized by the time I made it out to the kitchen table. And no, it hadn't taken me a long time because I was afraid of coming out, my fingers just pruned quickly, thank you very much.

Well, not quite shaken up. I thought I was being quite cool about everything, given the circumstances.

"Sam saw me naked—Sam saw me naked—Sam saw—"

"Freddie? What are you mumbling about?" Mom asked, all morning cheer and obliviousness.

"Nothing," I muttered darkly as I took a seat as far away from an already seated Sam as I could. Sadly, at a three seat table it wasn't all that easy.

I stared down at my optimistic breakfast and toyed with the silverware. The fact that it was a breakfast consisting of food made it optimistic at this point. It wasn't that I had no appetite; in fact, my stomach was feeling fairly stable and maybe even a little hollow. It was the unnerving fact that _she _was sitting across/next to me.

This whole arrangement was wrong. Just plain astronomically wrong. We had to have spent at least twenty overlapping minutes of us both being awake and we had said the proportional equivalent of nothing to each other.

So I did the dumb thing and furtively glanced up. Luckily she didn't catch it. She was just staring down into whatever passed as my mom's anti-vomiting mush, pushing it around with her spoon.

I put my head over onto my hand and stifled a sigh. The rest of our breakfast without breakfast passed much the same way. Mom rushed in and out of my sphere of consciousness a few times with illness related issues and I briefly caught Sam's eyes exactly twice.

Yeah, I was being stupid about it, but I could go on forever about how this whole situation was wrong. Sure she never would be a morning person, but Sam Puckett was always supposed to have something to say to me. She certainly had ample ammunition given the whole tub incident of fifteen minutes ago.

It kind of scared me how much I'd come to need to hear her talk when she was around. While I normally probably would've thought _need_ would be kind of a strong word, I'd probably also never thought I would feel this terrible about her being quiet.

Cruel irony for sure.

It kept making me remember the nightmare I'd had last night of our little lip to lip fiasco. I knew it had just been a dream, that it hadn't actually happened like that, but that left me wishing that I knew how it had happened. And feeling pretty lousy besides.

She left without saying anything a few minutes before I was going to deem it safe to excuse myself.

Then I did let myself sigh out loud. I also made myself choke down a few mouthfuls of breakfast, because I was actually feeling kind of hungry.

After that I plopped down on the sofa and turned on the television. There was nothing but little kids shows on, which reminded me that it was a school day. Right now all of my friends were at school, blissfully unaware of the situation I was in. Carly probably didn't even know what was going on yet. I thought about calling her during lunch, but that was several hours away yet.

My mom said something about having to make a supply run to the pharmacy. Yeah, yeah, I knew all the speed dial numbers. Yeah I promised to call her immediately if I began to feel even slightly worse. Then she was gone, and I was contemplating dozing off in front of Nora the Explorer when she picked her moment.

Something soft and square but moving at a murderous velocity smashed into the side of my face, far enough around to make my nose hurt. I was reeling off the sofa with my arm vaguely held up as I tried to form a question when it came again. And again and again and then Sam followed me down to the floor, bringing her assailing sofa pillow with her.

"Miserable—" Smack. "Little—" Thwack. "Germ covered—"

"Sam!" Okay, I admit I probably sounded a little pathetic.

"—Dork!" She finished, the pillow reluctantly coming to a stop as she sat there on top of me, breathing hard and glaring down at me.

Well, at least she was talking to me.

"Listen," I started in a placating voice, "I really am sorry and—"

"Yeah, you said that already," she muttered as she stood up a little shakily. She put a hand to her head. "I feel better. I feel like puking again, but I feel better."

"Glad I could help," I said sarcastically as I tenderly probed at the red half of my face. She started to walk towards the bathroom and I quickly tried to gather myself together. "Hey, wait. Could you just—wait for a minute? Listen, I just want to ... talk about—"

"Don't care." She distractedly waved her hand behind her as she weaved her way down the hall. Her steps were a little back and forth, and as I watched, other things went back and forth, and side to—

I violently shook my head, immediately regretting doing that not just because I'd just been mercilessly mauled by a cushion.

_This is going to be a long stretch of miserable. _

_Stupid hormones anyway._

--

AN: Made a few corrections, as I just realized that isn't picking up my narrative breaks. Hopefully it makes a little more sense now.


	3. Chapter 2

"Why would Sam change my grade, and make it better? She _hates _me!"

--Freddie Benson

i'M Sick of the Drama - Chap. ii

So after laying low for a while, I began to get worried. After all, Sam with reinforced tendencies for violence in my house, or more specifically my room, was probably something I should keep an eye on.

The door to my room being closed didn't make me feel much better. So it was with some trepidation that I slowly inched my own door open.

All the lights were off inside, leaving only the glow from my computer monitor. Sam was sitting there, looking distinctly sick and bored.

She didn't even look over at me, and I managed to sneak a peek at the monitor, finding that she was checking her email. Mostly, I just wanted to make sure that she wasn't purposely looking at suspect sites to get me trouble with my mom or something like that.

Being that she didn't even look like she was going to acknowledge that I was there, I started over towards the bed.

I got about halfway there when something hard collided with my temple, followed by massive pain and dozens of smaller objects falling around me.

"What was that?" I demanded as I fumbled for whatever had hit me.

Either she shrugged and I didn't see it or she didn't bother to respond at all. Muttering to myself, I began to feel my fever induced headache making a rigorous comeback, despite my person being heavily medicated with every brand of aspirin known to man and the Internet. I flipped on the lights.

"Aw, you threw my mug of pencils!" I groaned.

"Call the poets," Sam murmured under her breath as she shook her head, "We've got a tragedy on our hands."

"It's not funny, my grandmother gave me this," I growled as I picked the mug up, one piece at a time.

"She also gave you a fourth of your genes. She can't be that nice."

Yeah, this was the kind of stuff that I had to tolerate with post-Physical Science Sam. Since she actually had to pay something resembling attention in that class in order to pass eighth grade, her verbal diction has grown slightly more sophisticated.

But at least she was talking to me.

"I'm not going to take you throwing or hitting me with objects in my own house!" Okay, so I was whining, but bending over to pick up two-dozen scattered pencils did not mix well with pounding headaches.

"Get used to it," Sam practically threw my keyboard back into the desk slot, "And expect it as long as I'm going to be subjected to you like this. Because it's going to keep happening until I feel better or you bite it, whichever comes first."

"I'm not going to take ultimatums in my own room! You need to listen to whatever—"

Sam, the epitome of maturity, began making la la noises.

"And I'm—" So I did the only mature thing I could do and kept trying to talk over her.

Our voices kept rising until we both abruptly stopped. I sat down on my bed and Sam put a hand to her head.

"We should probably not do that anymore," I mumbled, my head feeling like it was doing a Sousa dedication.

"Yeah, probably not," Sam agreed. There a moment of restocking. "So, what's there to do around here? Your mom has every interesting website blocked."

I folded my arms. This almost sounded like the beginning of a civil conversation.

"I don't know. You want to play a board game or something?"

"What, your mom allows those?"

"Yes," I shot back, "I would think that since she's being so nice to you, you would at least try laying off her a little bit while you're here."

Sam raised her eyebrows. "Do you guys have Battleship?"

I angrily fidgeted. "No." It almost hurt to ground it out.

"Well." Sam rolled her eyes as she stood up.

"What?" I asked as I followed her. "It's a violent game!"

"So I guess no Clue either, huh?"

"And could you please at least _pretend_ to be grateful to her?"

"I am. Seriously." She didn't sound all that serious at the moment, but I supposed I believed her. "Come on, let's break out the Parcheesi, or whatever she actually lets you play. Anything to keep thoughts of you in the tub out of my head."

"Hey!" I'd almost forgotten about that.

--

But she was nice enough not to let that even be a possibility for the rest of the day. Probably my life, if the trend persisted. I had to admit though, it really wasn't all that bad; I would just have to make sure that she never actually did see anything more of my anatomy, especially while she was staying here.

"Freddie ..." she started, in a slow, honest voice, "I think we've doing this long enough ..." She looked up in my eyes. "... For me to say that you just suck at Life."

Normally I would object to that sort of assertion, but I was man enough to admit when I was horribly losing.

I thought I had been good at this particular board game, but come to think of it, it was very possible my mom just let me win most of the time. I wasn't exactly sure how that was possible in The Game of Life, but then again I had never thought it would be possible to play the game completely wrong and come out better for it. It was like cheating, only even more annoying because she seemed to be playing by the rules, in a very un-Sam kind of way. Like seriously, everyone knew you went to college first. You didn't just pick career right away and end up with a job better than a college one. Well, unless you were Sam, apparently.

Sam spun the spinner and hit another number that was higher than eight and happily moved through another "Pay Day" space.

"Oh yeah, momma likes the green," Sam rolled over onto her back on top of the floor and her stack of blankets and pillows, counting the money out above her as she began humming something that sounded suspiciously like "Splish, Splash."

I half leaned over the board from the sofa and spun a four. I would've groaned if my average for the game so far had been higher than two. But I did groan when that four brought me to another "Taxes Due" space.

"For real," I muttered under my breath. Sam's humming suddenly became too much. "Would you cut it out? You didn't even see anything!"

"Exactly," Sam shot back without looking up, "That's probably why you're having so much trouble procreating … among other things."

Resisting an illness reinforced urge to throttle her and her fancy scientific diction, I rolled over onto my back and tried to remember that Sam had been nice enough to let my game character get married, even though I hadn't been able to land on one of those squares to save my life. My mom had scribbled out the board's mandatory "Stop and Get Married Tile" and had randomly placed a few of them around the board. She said that helped me not to get the false hope that there was a guarantee of a girl out there who would be willing to marry me.

Yeah, thanks mom.

Sam had liked that so much we had played it like that for a while before she'd had pity on me.

My character also seemed to be having trouble producing children, so my little blue van was looking a little empty coming in towards the end of the game. Sam's van, on the other hand, was chocked full of kids. That probably said something, but so far I'd refrained from commenting on it. Why? Because I'm a nice guy and—well, actually I don't know why.

All I knew was I was growing tired of getting trounced in this game and trying to stay nice about it while she was just having a fine old time. In fact, it was really hard to remember that she had been feeling so sick not that long ago, and probably still was, when she was apparently having so much fun creaming me.

I blew a mouthful of bad tasting air out in a huff and turned my head over. She was going through her turn now, having rolled back onto her stomach and reaching over the board to move her piece. Her lips were silently moving as she counted out her roll, her face wearing a slight frown as she probably tried to see where she was going to land. She wore that kind of expression a lot whenever competition was involved, which usually by victim of circumstance involved me.

It wasn't like this was a brand new observation. I'd had the whole morning to do this kind of thing, and our whole friendship really. It was actually kind of weird to be spending not only this much time with her, but also this … _kind_ of time this close to her. And not just with her in her pajamas, but without Carly or—well, anyone else really. Mom still hadn't come back yet.

Her eyes snapped back up to mine and broke my train of thought.

"You're up, Trump."

Har har. She just had to be so funny about my lack of money.

"This game's stupid," I suddenly blurted. No, I was not pouting, I was simply expressing what a morning's headache and a string of gross board game injustices had been building in me. She laughed at that and I had to resort to damage control. After all, she would probably think that I was pouting, quite mistakenly of course. "What kind of sick, immoral game has the player with the most money winning at the end anyway?"

She smirked in an almost not-sick Sam sort of way. "You know we are so playing Monopoly after this."

"I don't want to play anymore." Most of what could've been mistaken for pouting was gone by now. "You win. I don't think it's even _possible _for me to come back."

"You can't just quit."

I sighed as I stared up at the ceiling, "I just don't feel like playing anymore."

"Well, okay. Wanna watch TV or something?"

I turned my head over and discovered that she looked just as … _accommodating _as she sounded. So what now? This is what the wrath of Sam amounted to these days? One short lived pummeling, with a non-lethal pillow no less, and one projectile assault? Granted, Sam had become much more … amiable since the early days of iCarly, but this was almost too good to be true, depending on how you looked at it. If I wasn't so sick I was positive that my well-honed Sam-sense would be predicting some sort of elaborate set up right about now.

"I guess …" I managed, hoping I didn't sound as suspicious to her as I did to myself, "I mean—whatever you want to do." At the moment I didn't really care; I was actually more concerned with calculating whether or not it would be safe to take a nap.

She stood up, pausing for a moment, probably to let her head clear, before reaching for the remote and dragging her jumble of blankets and pillows up with her to the opposite end of the sofa, where she sat down on my legs.

"Hey!"

"Move over," she said a little testily as she flipped the television on and rearranged her blankets onto my legs so that she could lean over a little.

It took about a whole ten seconds of that arrangement for me to deduce that a moderate fever combined with both sets of our blankets on my legs would lead to eventual leg combustion. Leg hair or not. Muttering in annoyance I swung my legs around and pilled my pillows up so that I was half sitting, half laying.

"Would you quit moving," she did some of her own annoyed muttering as she lost her pillow support. Piling them up again, she scooted far enough over to pile them on my side.

"Would you?" I asked as I pushed some of the blankets off my arm, but decided that it wasn't worth much more effort than that. Why did movement have to be so disagreeable when you're sick? "Isn't there anything better on?"

There was a pause. "I'm too lazy to break your mom's parental lock," Sam murmured. I turned my head and was surprised to find just how close she'd gotten. Her eyes were already closed.

I tried to go back to watching whatever show was on—I didn't even recognize it—but found it difficult to focus. Suddenly a nap had become inevitable.

But it had come again, that nagging sense that this whole undiscussed topic that was hanging between us needed to be discussed—or even at least acknowledged. I made the vague connection that this seemed to happen whenever I was about to fall asleep, when the idea that she might not be there when I woke up, that she really could leave at any time was suddenly so real.

"Sam—" I faltered a little.

"Don't even tell me you're sorry again," she mumbled, more than a little irritation in her voice.

"I wasn't." I didn't have to lie about that. "I just—could we talk …about you know … maybe a little later?"

There was a short pause. "I don't know."

"Please?"

"Just be quiet."  
"Will you if I am?" I asked.

"Yeah, yeah." She said it in such a way that I wondered if she would even remember this conversation when she woke up. "Whatever you say."

"Okay." And that was good enough for me, because things were coming in broken fragments that didn't make sense, and I knew I was already halfway asleep. I knew, because Sam making that weird, excited, ridiculously overdone sound she sometimes did on iCarly didn't really have much in common with slinkies ... and chocolate covered bunnies ... and ...

--

I barely registered and probably didn't even acknowledge when my mom returned, all in a fit of happiness because my testing had come back to show that I only had the flu, and all in a tizzy of distress because my testing had come back to show I had the flu. By logical deduction she deduced that was probably what Sam had as well. I did distinctly remember her wondering out loud why Carly hadn't caught it as well. That was one mystery I hoped she would never solve.

Then I went back to sleep.

My mind blearily logged in maybe a half dozen more times of me briefly waking up to adjust myself or Sam waking me as she moved.

It wasn't until I really woke up an indiscernible number of hours later that I realized the full extent of the position I found myself in. And I felt worse again, maybe even a little worse than I had last night. Like my head had been coated with insulation and stuck in a toaster for a few hours.

I longingly eyed my mug of life giving ice water on the coffee table, only a few feet away, but it may as well have been the length of the Sahara.

At what point she had moved up to my shoulder I had no idea. That wasn't so bad though. That was almost understandable. The arm around my chest wasn't.

Her hand was actually sort of resting on one of my elbows. That constituted skin on skin contact in my book.

Swallowing in my present condition was impossible, but I tried anyway.

It wasn't a big deal, right? Just an innocent, sleep guided arm around the chest. All I had to do was carefully extract it, hope she didn't wake up, and rehydrate myself.

I had to admit that if it were that easy, if there had actually been a slim but believable chance that I could do it without waking her up, it wouldn't have been all that big of a deal. But given how the majority of her was resting on me, at least her top half, there was no way it was happening. I could hardly move my head around without her mop of curly frizz getting in my face. She apparently hadn't had much inclination towards tending it today.

But dang it. There was the other whole not-wanting-to-disturb-her factor to contend with. She just had to look almost peaceful. She just had to.

And there was that whole other thing that I didn't usually like to bring up. She just smelled the way she did. It wasn't a big deal. Usually anyway. Like when she wasn't laying _on top of me_, with her hair all over the place, centimeters from my face.

"All right," I muttered, or croaked really. For whatever reason, maybe that maddening smell, maybe not, I surged forward, doing it in one quick motion without thinking about it any more. I ignored the angry murmuring behind me and my sudden fit of dizziness as I drank and drank deeply. It was almost too cold. I leaned the mug against my face as I summoned up a little bit of courage and turned around.

She was half glaring at me and muttering something unintelligible. I thought I might say something, but instead I quickly walked away.

I should be used to this sort of thing by now, I really should. Having two girls as your best friends has its up and downs. One of the ups was getting to be around girls a lot; the other was having to be around girls a lot. It didn't help with my apparently lawless hormones on the loose and the fact that neither of them were ugly by any stretch. Yeah, my hormones had to be pretty lawless if they were persisting with this whole Sam thing, since that was pretty much what Freddie Benson's rule number one consisted of. She was my friend, and it was dishonest to keep thinking like this, not to mention potentially lethal. Things seemed to be okay now, even after the whole lip incident and now this, and I couldn't risk sending her any more wrong signals while I was treading on thin ice. More like juggling dump trucks on thin ice, but there really wasn't much need to get too descriptive with my metaphors.

I had no clear plan; mostly I just wanted to get away from her for a little while. And away from her potential for dishing out physical abuse and disconcerting trends of pleasantness and fascinating smells and—ugh. Yeah, I just needed to get away for a while.

I had been making for the kitchen, but quickly changed destinations again as I realized my mom was in there. Wishing that my life wasn't filled with so many complicated women, I strategically fell back to my room. I was slowly being cornered in my own house.

But the little bit of relief that I got from my empty and wholly Sam-less room couldn't do much against the—what? Disappointment? Boredom? Whatever it was, I was sick, felt like liquid feces, and didn't really want to be in here. But where else was there?

It was only a little after one o'clock by this time, and I spent the next two or so hours on my computer, doing what little work for iCarly's online stuff that I could scrounge up.

My mom checked in a few times or so, apologizing profusely that she had been busy and that it had taken her so long to get back from the pharmacy. She said something about having to wait until the new supply truck had arrived because they'd run out of supplies. She also brought a battery of things I had to ingest in various forms, and she had to take my temperature as precisely as possible. I felt kind of guilty about yelling at her about that, but did she really have to insist on where I had to get it so loudly? There were no more than two mere walls separating me from Sam and eternal humiliation.

But these were fairly brief visits, and didn't amount to much beyond routine for both of us. At the tail end of the last one however, my mother had paused and mentioned in a failed-attempt-at-nonchalance kind of way that Sam was awake in the living room watching television. And I should really be paying more attention to my guest.

I had made some kind of noncommittal sound.

Then she'd left.

Guilt steadily built up for the next half hour or so.

I sat there trying to concentrate, and pounding on my keyboard when I couldn't. It ended up being something resembling a steady rhythm.

Was I afraid? Yes. I knew that, but of what? It wasn't just talking to her, of juvenile fears of her being mad at me or doing something to me. Or was that all there was?

I threw my hand through my hair in frustration as I leaned over my desk. Why did it have to feel like I was missing out on something important? I saw her everyday. She was probably going to be staying here for a while yet anyway. Why was it so hard?

Even when I finally stood up it wasn't an assured thing. But once I started walking it wasn't hard, never as hard as it seemed like it would be.

I slowly walked down the hall, half expecting to hear the TV, but I hesitated somewhat when I heard a small bit of laughter.

I heard my mother say something in a fast, giddy voice, and Sam quietly agree.

When I turned the corner I froze in something resembling shock. And not just because my mom and Sam were sitting peacefully on the sofa together, smiling.

The object that probably best summed up my most embarrassing moments of life was cradled in my mother's lap as they both sat there, slowly flipping through the pages.

"Mom!" I couldn't help it. I just couldn't help being angry; it was a natural reaction to fear.

"Oh, Freddie, you're up," my mother looked up at me with a smile. I didn't even need that sentence from her to know that she had told Sam that I had been sleeping.

"Mom, what are you doing?" I lunged forward and yanked the scrapbook out of her hands before she could think about stopping me.

"Sweetie, I'm just showing Sam—"

"Well don't! I _told_ you not to!" I stepped away from her even as she made a token reach for it. I sent the look I'd been sending her a lot lately with every bit of force I could muster.

She took the hint.

"All right, I'm sorry, I didn't think it would hurt anything." She stood up a little shakily. "I'll just put it back ... then—" And she held out her hand as though she wasn't sure if that would be okay.

I gave it back and she quickly stepped back into the kitchen with it. Sam merely looked at me.

I found that it wasn't hard not to feel guilty. I'd _told _her. It was something else entirely when she was just talking about showing it to other people, like previous girlfriends, when I already had a plan to get around it. But it was different when she actually did it, especially to someone like Sam. Especially Sam.

"What?" I asked her as I plopped down at the opposite end of the sofa. She was just staring at me.

"You've been doing that a lot, you know." She paused. "To her."

I glared but didn't say anything.

"We weren't looking at pictures of you naked or anything," she continued.

"That's not the point."

"_Is_ there a point to you acting like a jerk?"

I folded my arms, blatantly remembering why I'd come out here in the first place. I waited a few more moments, when I thought that it would be safe.

"So what do you want to do?" I asked.

She rolled her head back onto the couch. "Pretend that my stomach isn't doing jumping jacks." She turned over and looked at me. Before I knew it, she slid a hand through my hair. "What have you been doing, playing with your battery collection?" She put another hand through it before I could manage to swat her away.

It was crazy. She shouldn't be doing that. She _really _shouldn't be doing that. It almost produced a sort of giddy feeling. And something else as I stared at her as she calmly looked back at me.

I ran an indignant hand through my hair, discovering that it was kind of a mess. Well, she was one to talk. I kind of wish she had combed—brushed—whatever she did with her hair; at least it would be normal then, and not so ... fetching.

But that was the end of it, and we sank into idle chatter that didn't mean anything, almost like usual. It was more or less what I'd hoped she'd want to do when I asked her, not that she would ever say something like that, but I still couldn't help but feel let off. Like I would enjoy it if she ran her hands through my hair all day.

I sighed. Stupid hormones anyway.

But this ... this was new. Why was she being like this?


	4. Chapter 3

"And doesn't she always call you a button pushing monkey and tell you how you're not important to the show?"

--Valerie

i'M Sick of Being Sick

--

"I just want to know who got _you _sick before you got _me _sick." I lolled my head around to look at her.

"Whoa, back up germ boy, you're the one who got _me _sick." Sam pushed her blanket away and straightened up a little.

"What?" I looked at her incredulously. "You're the one who missed school yesterday—_before _I started feeling sick. So you're telling me that I was sick before you ... but still somehow started feeling like a taxi mat _after _you? How does that work?"

"What do I look like?" Sam frowned and shrugged. "A mat expert? But hey, when I get sick I start to feel it right away. I like to get it over with."

"I would've thought that you would like this whole no-school thing," I said.

"Oh yeah," Sam widened her eyes sarcastically, "And I just love chucking up my guts every six hours." She put her head back and groaned. "It's not fair. Thinking about food has been making me sick for over a day. _Twenty-four hours._"

I looked over at her, wondering if it would be safe for her to be sick for very long. Sam wasn't exactly skin and bones, but her rabid mongoose of a metabolism certainly didn't leave her with much.

She looked liked she was trying to be honest for a moment. "But this whole getting waited on hand and foot thing is kinda nice."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, "We're not getting waited on hand and foot."

"Please," she rolled her eyes, "You're just so used to it you don't even notice. Watch." She twitched her nose thoughtfully before giving a slight sniffle.

The kitchen's swinging door burst open, my mom rushing in with a box of Kleenexes and a thermometer.

"Oh, Freddie, are you okay?" she swooped low to where I was sitting and began dabbing at my face. "Are your symptoms changing?"

"No! Mom, I'm fine! It was Sa—" I futilely tried to swat her away. "It was Sam!"

"Oh," my mother visibly relaxed as she turned to Sam. "Are you okay dear? Do you need to blow your nose?"

"No," Sam looked over at me with a smirk, "I'm fine. I think it'll be all right if you just leave the Kleenex in here with us—just in case."

"Okay, dear." Mom leaned over Sam with clear restraint and put her hand over Sam's forehead. "How are you feeling now? Still a little queasy?"

"As long as I don't think about anything that tastes good," Sam grumbled, and then under her breath as my mom rose, "Or Freddie."

"Well, that's good," my mother said encouraging as she made for the kitchen, "The 7uper is almost ready, so you'll only have to wait a few more minutes. I'll bring it out just as soon as it's finished."

"See? It's like the Hilton. Only for free." Sam frowned. "What was she talking about? What's a 7uper?"

I squirmed slightly. "Oh, nothing. It's just her little recipe for upset stomachs. No big deal."

I could feel her giving me a pair of quirked eyebrows. If she was Sam, and, well, unfortunately she was, she would be able to see right through my blatant downplaying of my mom's "special" 7uper. It was actually an appropriate name for what it did to your stomach—and whatever was in it.

She was so going to see through me and refuse to ever drink—

She shrugged a little. "Oh. Okay."

I tried not to make my glance at her look as shocked as I felt. "Oh ... okay."

Sam looked over at me. "Yeah. That's what I just said."

"Yeah, uh," I fumbled for a moment, "Well, just know that I'm going to find out where you got this muck from. Who you ki—uh, I mean exchanged bacteria with first."

"Watch out," she made exaggerated motions with her face, "Sherlock's on the case. I—" She stopped.

"What?"

"Ugh, I'm getting another headache," she moaned as she threw her feet up over my lap, "My feet need to be rubbed."

"Forget it!" I said in horror as I tried to push them off. "I'm not doing it!"

"You'll do it if you know what's good for you. Rub. Now. Quick." She put her head over the sofa arm.

"What do your feet have to do with a headache? They're on _complete_ opposite ends of your body." Why did it sound like I was trying to make an excuse for something I wasn't going to do?

"I don't know. It's just one of those things that'll never be answered—why does peanut butter and jelly go with ham? Why will you never get a girl? Why—just rub already!"  
"But I—don't—" Why was I even considering this?

"Rub or suffer!"

"But—I—" Okay, I had to admit that the whole foot rub thing was something I'd thought about doing before—with a girl that is. And while I probably would've passed out if someone, say Carly, was making these kinds of demands, Sam was my friend too. It was possible to do a completely friendly foot rub on a girl, wasn't it? And besides, I felt like I kinda owed her. For this whole fiasco.

"It's so—" I had my hands uncertainly poised over them. "—Unsanitary …"

"Relax," she laughed and wiggled her toes in her socks, "They're clean." I gingerly put my thumbs under them. "I washed them yesterday."

"Ugh," I grimaced and turned my head away, but didn't take my hands off.

"Yes ..." Sam made impatient motions with her hands. "The second part of a foot rub is the rubbing part."

I made a face at her as I slowly moved up and down her soles.

She started giggling. Taking this as a good sign I increased the pace, and she giggled harder. I was about to smile when she leaned up and solidly smacked me across my head, all the while giggling madly.

The two actions didn't really go well together.

"What was that for?" I demanded.

"Stop—stop it!" She managed. "You're ti—tick—No tickling!"

I smiled and tickled a little harder. "I still don't get why I'm doing this."

"Enough! Please! Stop or I'll tell your mom!"

I grinned but relented, storing this little nugget of potential away in the back of my mind. It was actually a very rewarding feeling to have her at the mercy of my fingertips. It was actually—well, that was a far enough description for that feeling.

And slowly, because I really had no idea what I was doing, I pressed my thumbs into the soles of her feet, starting at the heel.

Sam made a satisfied sound as she languidly waved her arm. "Better than the Hilton."

"You've never stayed at the Hilton."

She shrugged with her mouth. "I stole pillows from there once."

"Figures."

"Hey, you wouldn't—oh. _Oh._ Wow. Right there." Sam closed her eyes and leaned her head back.

I pressed a little more, watching her face. This was almost unbelievable. I had no idea this sort of thing could be this—whatever this was.

One of her feet twitched across my lap and—

"_Ugh_." It came out of my mouth before I could help it.

"Huh?" she asked distractedly.

"Nothing," I answered weakly as I tried to squirm around to a safer position. But once it had started there was no turning back, as the entirety of the situation caught up with me. I was holding Sam's feet, unsanitary or not—I was holding a pair of girl feet in my hands.

_Uh oh. Stop, stop. No, not now!_ I thought desperately downward.

Okay, this was not only becoming awkward, but wrong as well. How had this seemed so innocent just a few seconds ago?

_Sam is just my friend, Sam is just my friend, Sam is just my friend_—with way too frisky feet.

_No, no, no, this is wrong—I've gotta—_

The doorbell rang.

"Hey, Freddie, you in there?"

We both looked at each other. "Carly!"

My mother rushed past us even as me and Sam fumbled for anything but the position we were in. I ended up falling to the floor. Sam leaped up and stood on the sofa, as if increased elevation between us might make things appear more innocuous. There was a second of hesitation before we both realized that was worse and scrambled to less suspicious elevations as far away from each other as possible. I was confused for a moment why Sam would be so embarrassed if she didn't know about the full extent of my awkwardness of a few seconds ago. But then I guess that me rubbing her feet at all would do it for her if Carly found out.

"Yeah, I'm in—here," I shouted back at Carly as she continued to knock on the door.

By this time mom had reached the door and looked like she was trying to spray anything within a five-foot radius of it with disinfectant.

"Mom!" I said absently as I tried to shoo her away. Glancing behind me I saw that Sam hadn't followed. She was standing back, looking down and scratching at one of her hands.

"She can only peek! Don't let her inside, we don't want her getting sick too!" Mom whispered-shouted at me.

"Don't worry," I said quickly, trying to think of a way to get her out of the room, "I don't think she's as susceptible as Sam is—I mean, I'm sure she won't have the same reasons to get sick …" a slight pause in horror, "Not to say that Sam had any special—out of the ordinary reasons to get sick—"

"Mrs. Benson, is something burning?" Sam asked quickly, bailing me out while shooting a significant look at me.

"Good heavens! The 7uper sauce!" My mother made a mad dance for the kitchen, spraying anything within range as she went.

"It has sauce?" Sam asked dubiously. I could practically see the queasiness in her eyes.

I gave my best reassuring look as I unlocked the door and let it open a foot or so. "Hey."

"Hey, faker," Carly smiled at me and tried to lean her head in, only to come up short when I didn't open the door any farther. "Uh, can I come in?"

"No," I said a little too quickly before thinking about it.

"Oh. Okay." Carly pulled her head back, pretending to look hurt.

"I mean _no_, I'd like you to, but you can't," I jiggled the door a little, "I don't have the lock to the chain lock."

"You have a lock on top of your chain lock?" Carly asked him. "Oh, my God."

"My _mom _does," I tried to clarify, though I knew that she was only teasing, "At least as long as I'm contagious."

"So how you feeling?" Carly asked, measuring me up and down and distinctly looking like she wished she was inside where she could go all "mother" mode on me.

"Better than yesterday," I said, "I just have a fever and—other things to deal with."

"Sore throat?" Carly asked.

I glanced back at Sam, who hadn't moved. Frowning, I motioned at her with my head.

"Neck spasms?" Carly asked, not seeing what I was gesturing at.

Sam almost timidly stepped beside me. "Hey, Carls."

"Sam?" Carly jerked her head back. "Why are you where you're not supposed to be?"

Sam rolled her eyes. "Long story, sad ending. My mom dumped me here until I recuperate."

"Oh, my God," Carly laughed, "I wondered why you weren't answering your cell phone!"

"My cell phone's been disconnected for a week," Sam said, and I didn't miss the hint of sadness in her voice.

The Carly before High School would've never gone that long without calling Sam—or me. The Carly before High School and ridiculous amounts of homework and honors classes wouldn't have waited until six o'clock to come check on me either.

Carly pressed on quickly. "So you've been here together for the whole day?" she giggled. "Together?"

"Yeah, don't rub it in," Sam said. She suddenly reached through the doorway for Carly's collar. "You've got to get me out of here! I've had to breathe the same air as this dork for twenty-four hours, I've been pampered, patted, and pruned by his mom for—"

"Pruned?" Carly asked.

"I don't know," Sam said impatiently, "It was another P-word. The point is I'm living in an anti-bacterial bubble of crazy, and I haven't eaten in nearly two days! Shoot me. Now. _Please_."

"Please," I said as I crossed my arms, "Don't listen to her. It hasn't been that bad."

Carly raised her eyebrows. "You two are getting along?"

"Uh," I stuttered, "That's not what I said … I mean she hasn't been any picnic either. Punching me whenever she wants, making me rub—"

Sam noticeably stiffened beside me.

"Uh, I mean—" I attempted a verbal one-eighty, "She's been rub—_bing_ me the wrong way, yeah, and—"

"My foot—" Carly started.

"What? Who said anything about a foot?" I gave a laugh that came out a little giddy, "No one said anything about a foot."

"Nope, this is a foot free conversation," Sam jumped in just as quickly.

"No foot, and especially no _feet_," I continued.

"I guess I don't need to ask if you two are feeling all right." Carly was frowning at them. "Cause you're both probably medicated enough to float a blimp. But it's agreed that it's been horrible? I sympathize."

"Yes, yes it has," I said.

"There you go again," Sam looked over at me, "It hasn't been_ that_ bad, has it? Am I just that intolerable that—"

"Okay! Enough!" Carly suddenly burst in. "We could do this all night, and unfortunately I'm not up to it. You both agree to disagree about how wonderful or horrible it's been, okay?"

"We're not disagreeing—" I tried, but Carly shushed me sharply.

"Oh please, you'd disagreed about your own funeral date you—"

"I would not!" I protested, and vaguely I heard Carly give something similar to a groan.

Sam jabbed a finger at me. "The _only _thing you _will_ agree on is that you got us into this mess!"

"What? Freddie got you sick?" Carly giggled. "What did you do? Kiss her?"

Carly went on giggling at what she apparently felt was a very humorous and harmless joke. She was too busy enjoying herself that she mostly missed our expressions.

"No! That's—just—crazy." I failed.

"Yeah, yeah," Carly was waving me off distractedly.

"If you can even call that kissing," Sam muttered so low I almost thought I had imagined it.

I looked at her angrily, and then back Carly. "And while we're talking about—" I started to say that horrible K word, but lost my nerve somewhere before it began "—Do you know who else wasn't at school today?"

"We're not talking about that," Carly looked amused, "We were talking about you kissing Sa—"

"Yeah, yeah," I plowed forward, "Was anyone else sick today?" I suspiciously glared over at Sam, to which she merely rolled her eyes.

Carly made an unapologetic face. "I don't know. I wasn't really paying attention."

Yeah, big surprise.

She frowned as she hesitated for a moment. "I guess Natalie wasn't there today. Don't know if she was sick or not though."

I made an annoyed gesture. I didn't really have to worry about Sam kissing her—or hopefully any other girls. "Okay, but were there any guys? Like—good looking guys?"

Sam snorted into her hand that she tried to stifle her laughter with. I shot her an incensed glance, determined to push on ahead, even if it meant treading in potentially uncomfortable territory for me. This was important.

Okay, who Sam was and wasn't possibly kissing was none of my concern and wasn't really all that important. I just had to know. That's all.

"Why?" Carly gave me a disbelieving look. "Are you getting _that_ desperate for a homecoming date?"

I sighed. _This is important—this is important—_ "Was there anyone else sick?"

Carly frowned, "No good looking guys that I know of, but I think someone said that Ned kid that sits beside us—you know in honors art—got sick over the weekend." She shrugged.

"Ned?" Sam looked disgusted. "The kid with the melanoma problem?"

"_The kid with the melanoma problem?_" I repeated as I looked over at Sam in horror. Not that I cared of course. It wasn't my business—although if true it would mean that I had unwittingly been exposed to second hand melanoma.

Sam gave me an antagonizing smirk. "What can I say? My standards have been slipping lately."

"As if you have any standards—"

"Uh ... what are you guys talking about?" Carly asked, looking uncertain whether to look amused or concerned.

"Nothing," we both hurriedly said together.

"Anyway, I really can't stay long," Carly reached into her backpack. "I brought your guys' homework. At least now I don't have to go to your house too, Sam."

"Some friend you are," Sam said; she leaned against the door frame as Carly pushed an impressive stack of books and papers through the door. When Sam made no motion to take them, I looked at her but only got a pair of expectant eyebrows.

"All right," I muttered as I took them all. I turned to Carly "So you just_ now_ got home?"

"Yeah, I had to stay after and finish my lab for Mr. Kinney," Carly groaned. "And I have to finish the lab report tonight. So—get better—don't kill each other—and try to have fun?"

She barely waited for our pair of quiet goodbyes before she was gone, and we were alone again.

Sam didn't say anything as she absently tapped a hand against her leg while heading back for the sofa.

I could muster little enthusiasm as I glanced over my respective half of the stack that I had to get done. Well, actually it was more like nine tenths, since Sam wasn't going to get more than a third of hers done, at best. Not that I was going to do any of her homework for her.

I mentally rolled my eyes.

_Yeah, Freddie, just like you're not going to rub her feet either._

"So ... I bet you've been missing your girlfriend this year." Sam said it casually.

"_Yes_, I've been missing her _too_," I answered as I sat down beside her again.

"I wish she would just do something really dumb," Sam said suddenly as she clenched her fists half seriously, "Something really selfish that isn't for grade point averages or _future prospects_," she mimicked in a high voice reminiscent of our life course advisor, "Just something, anything, so I can call her a nub."

"You've really been wishing that?" I looked at her, genuinely a little surprised.

"Since the beginning of the month," she leaned her head back, "It's barely halfway through September and I'm already sick of school."

"You should really talk to her, tell her how you feel," I pressed, "It's not good to hold stuff like that in. You'll probably just end up taking it out on me."

"What? Aren't I a good example of calm and self control?" She looked over at me. "And don't pretend you don't want to do the same thing to her. I'll tell her she's being a nub if you do."

I looked back at her. "I'll tell her if you tell her first."

She let out an exaggerated breath of annoyance. "Fine. We'll do it together."  
"Fine. It's a deal," I said, even though I knew that would never happen—unless Carly did go and do something stupid, selfish, and completely unnecessary, which would probably never happen since she was Carly. It was just like I knew that no matter how warm and friendly this current feeling between us would get, there was no way me and Sam were going to go back to what we had been doing before we'd been interrupted.

I didn't know whether to be happy or irritated that Carly had cut it off—whatever "it" had been. Though after a few minutes of agonizing I decided that I was happy. It had been getting out of hand and I needed to stick by my promise not to keep giving Sam any false impressions. Or at least I needed to try a lot harder at it.

--

Mom returned shortly afterwards with her slightly botched batch of 7uper.

Contrary to everything I knew to be logical and ethical, I nodded in encouragement again when Sam looked at me. For whatever reason she also decided to ignore tangible odors and trust my judgment.

I was fairly positive that we both regretted that.

It was this whole new feeling of guilt, of feeling like I should be doing _something_, that I should be able to make it better somehow. But I couldn't do anything my mom wasn't already doing with gusto as Sam threw up what little she'd drank. She was in the bathroom a long time, long after I could hear any sounds following her efforts.

When I decided that it might be better to feel horrible in my own room, I headed in that direction and went to go check on her on the way past. I'd been intending to say something. What exactly, I had no idea, but I was spared that minor dilemma when I found that she wasn't in the bathroom. She actually turned out to be in my bedroom, much to my surprise. And not just in my bedroom, but my _bed_.

She was facing the door, her head on my pillow and her own pillow in her arms. There was a sort of crumpled look to her, and she didn't open her eyes when I came in.

So I was left to stand there for a quite a while, very tired and very at a loss of what to do. When I had said that I didn't want to send her any more false impressions, _this was exactly the kind of thing I'd been talking about._

_I'm not going to sleep in the same bed as her. I'm just going to kindly tell her to get up and go back down to her own bed—yeah. Right. Dream on, Freddie._

The entire time that I was standing over her, making odd gestures of frustration and confusion with my arms and face (that not even I could probably understand), I wasn't sure if she was actually asleep. But I got my answer when she stirred slightly and opened her eyes the barest amount that it would take her to notice me.

"What happened to my sleeping bag?" she mumbled groggily.

It only took a quick glance to confirm that my private bet had ended in favor of my mother bleaching Sam's sleeping bag. I was more than familiar enough with my mom and bleach to know the signs.

I hadn't even begun to come up with how to answer that before she for all apparent appearances passed out again. Throwing my hands up in the air, I carefully navigated over to the side of the bed, eying up all the nastier calculations and wondering why it had to be like this.

Planting my hands on the bed's edge, I carefully lifted a leg up and over her to the other side, swung over, and cautiously lowered myself beside her. It actually went pretty unremarkably.

Sam groaned and twisted around to face me.

This facing each other thing usually wasn't a big deal—when our faces weren't within centimeters of each other.

Her eyes looked confused and entirely too close. "Whaddya doing in my bed?"

"Uh," was the best I could manage as I pulled as far away from her as I could. It was the best I could manage, even given that the conversation was all ready for me, "This ... this is my bed. Yeah, this is _my_ bed." I picked up a little indignation.

"Sure, sure," she closed her eyes as she yawned and reached over and patted my head like a dog. "What's its name then?"

"Wha—what?" I was having a hard time concentrating on words and sentences and that sort of thing as her hand began drooping down from my hair to my face and even lower.

"Your bed," she looked at me again, "What's its name?"  
"It doesn't have a name."

Well, at least I knew this was all good and harmless fun in the name of delirium.

But then she grinned a little. "You name your computers. Don't you name your furniture too?"

"I—" was caught. "That's different."

"Suzie and Mackenzie?" She laughed. "You are such a dork."

"That was a long time ago," indignantly, "Besides, everyone does it."

"Maybe everyone that subscribes to Hardcore Hardware magazines."

I gasped. "You've been looking through my stuff!"  
"No," she rolled her eyes, "I've been entertaining myself."

I suddenly had nothing to say, as for a moment I mistakenly took that to mean recently, when she had been spending quality time wrapped around the toilet—not earlier, whenever she had seen my tech magazines.

"So who were they? Your kindergarten crushes?" Sam said after a moment of silence and looking like she'd gone back to sleep. She peeked almost curiously out of one eye.

"No—they, I mean yes," I wanted to groan. Her hand was still resting somewhere just above my stomach, and the situation was coasting somewhere just below intimate. Intimate for crying out loud! "They were crushes—but—"

"They must've been _really _special," she said, "I mean special enough to name your heart and soul after them."

"They ... weren't. Not really." I threw my hands up. "Okay, I had a sad and lonely childhood before iCarly! Happy?"  
She patted me almost reassuringly. "Don't worry, some things never change." And then she put her head down and scooted in closer to me.

Retreating while saving face was pretty difficult as I was already at the end of my pillow—both metaphorically and literally. But Sam Puckett was practically snuggling up to me for crying out loud! And it was making me feel all giddy and warm. And—ugh, she just pulled her arm up and over me. This was like against all the laws of nature and what passed as good and orderly in the universe.

Did she have any idea what it was like for me to be touching her in this many places? With only the most negligible of space separating my shameless teenage body from her slender and oh so slight one?

Sometimes this is what it's like having two girls as your best friends.

"Sam—" I liked to think that it hadn't come out strangled. "Do we really have to be doing this right—"

"I think I'm feeling better." It was almost like she was cutting me off. "I think that stuff actually helped me—after the whole hurling my guts out thing."

Slowly, I could slowly feel sleep overtaking me as everything kind of just settled. And continued feeling good. Her arm was around me and it was so—

"Sam, are you going to kill me?" I didn't realize just how far I'd been slipping out of it before I half jerked myself awake by speaking.

Her voice sounded almost equally startled. "No. You're too cuddly—you're safe."

And candid.


	5. Chapter 4

"Yeah, yeah, she's always putting me down and calling me mean names and—and every time I get an ice cream cone she takes it and she licks it, she licks it all over the place just to bug me!"

--Freddie Benson

i'M Almost Sick of Her - Chap iv

--

The day dawned bright and early a little bit before noon for us. I woke bleary and with a persistent disconnected feeling in my head, but feeling pretty good about it anyway because my fever was down and the rest of me wasn't so bad either. In fact I actually felt a little guilty about not going to school today, even though my mom would've never let me while I was still a stage three contagion—plus, school usually started at eight, not eleven.

But I was all right with missing one more day. Actually, I was all right with a lot of things, as I had this kind of floaty, excited feeling. And not just in my head. It was probably the whole not-feeling-like-I-was-a-fire-hazard-anymore thing and—oh, okay. Freddie be honest. Sam make Freddie happy.

Not a Carly kind of happy—but happy.

It was just such a rare thing when that elusive something clicked. When we were both focused on something or just when the insults and generally snappy dispositions eased up a bit. It was like this—unexplainable thing that was really good. And it was so hard to concentrate on, or even to realize that it was happening most of the time. It just happened.

Waking up beside her was some pretty crazy stuff. I had to admit that. She was all over the place, all over _my _bed with her hair and her smell and her arms and her warmth.

Maybe it was just the contrast from the guilt-ridden night when she'd first arrived that made this night's sleep seem so much better. Even the nagging fear that my mom might've seen us like this couldn't detract from it (and she all but had to, since I knew that she checked on me every other hour, at least).

After an unsteady trip to the bathroom that she didn't comment on later, Sam for all intents and purposes seemed to be feeling better too. Maybe not quite as good as I was, but apparently good enough.

Things went just about as they had the previous day following the pillow incident, except so much better. So much faster. It wasn't even like I was there for it; I could only look back after it had happened. The game of Uno, more television, more medication and random spatterings of my noticeably more restrained mother and the uneasy feeling I just couldn't quite sink into that she had seen us like _that_.

For the next few weeks I would try so many times to grasp, even just to remember what it had been like. I could recall the words, the actions, even that funny feeling that permeated everything, but that was all. It was like a blur that only smudged the more I tried to touch it.

Breakfast turned out to be a rarity for the Benson household, as my mother had been so preoccupied that we'd more or less run out of groceries. It was a sign of desperate times when my mom ordered out for Chinese. It was just too bad that it was entirely out of the question for Sam to have any, and apparently I was barred from it as well since it was "too exotic."

My mom was nice enough—depending on how you looked at it—to let us have our fortune cookies. Not that we could eat them.

"_'Be sure to watch what you eat_,'" Sam read from her fortune, "_'Your beauty is evident to all.'_ Well, it's got it half right. What does yours say?"

I frowned down at the mocking little piece of paper.

"Seriously, I want to know if you're going to kick it or something," Sam said, "Cause I could stand to borrow twenty bucks … Come on, what does it say? It can't be that bad."

I glared up at her. "_'Focus on the color purple this week to give you good luck.'_"

Sam burst out laughing.

"It's not funny."

Sam laughed harder.

"What a stupid fortune."

"Oh, come on," she managed, trying to bring herself back under control, "Maybe it means that there's a tech loving hunk in your near future."

"That's disgusting," I scrunched up my face, doing a remarkable job at not joining in with her.

Sam managed to take a breath. "Would you prefer a tech loving stud?"

"Why do you care?" I shot back.

She frowned and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't."

"Uh huh," I crossed my arms, feeling a distinctly established line being probed, "Says the girl who's obsessed with my pants."

"What?" Sam sputtered. "I am not!"

"Let's see," I held up my hand and began ticking the items off, "In regards to my pants, you have soaked, blown up, nearly started on fire, stuffed mayonnaise, lasagna—and oh yeah, _flaming_ _Korean hot sauce _down—"

"Okay, okay," Sam interrupted almost urgently, "Can I help it if you wearing pants is an oxymoron?"

"Oxymoron?"

"Yeah," Sam laughed, "What do you have to cover up?"

I opened my mouth but closed it again just as quickly. We sat there in silence for a long minute, both of us perhaps assessing the damage done to our formerly well established line.

That, however, didn't turn out to be the most memorable point of the day.

"Ugh," Sam said a little while later, pulling her shirt in and out as we sat in the living room, "It's not fair. It's _September_. Summer is supposed to be _dead_."

Somewhere in the early morning, summer had indeed returned with a passion that had culminated into near record-breaking humidity levels. Bushwell Plaza had officially become a Turkish bath.

Sam groaned again. "I feel like a slimy Popsicle—in an oven."

"I _wish _I felt like that." I looked over and then laughed along with her.

And not long after the hot and sticky front had moved into Seattle, my mom had fired up the air conditioner only to discover that it wasn't working. After a heated phone call down to the lobby, she'd managed to get Lewbert to promise to fix it as soon as possible.

In other words, we were out of AC until February, at the earliest.

So my mom was not only much subdued, probably because of the whole Sam and me sight, but she was also in a tizzy behind the scenes trying to scrounge up enough fans, ice, and other cooling elements to produce an ice rink.

The peak of the day came in the middle of one of her supply runs. I probably should've seen it coming.

One minute I was sitting on the sofa with Sam, arguing that she had been hogging the fan all morning—_and she had been_—the next she was jerking me up onto my feet and towards the door.

No matter how hard and long I protested, maybe even whined a little that we couldn't and shouldn't be going out of the apartment when we were sick, much less outside, much less whatever else she had in mind, well ... she was Sam.

And she seemed to be having a pretty fun time about it, poking fun at my "whiny monologues" and my general lack of a life and even a couple pokes at my mom.

But what was I supposed to do? She was dragging me along by the hand. _By the hand._ Her hand. Her soft, warm—

It was at times like these that I wished I could remember to have more fun with it, enjoy these spontaneous and not entirely advisable ventures of hers while they lasted.

Sadly I was given even less time than usual on this particular outing to the park, where I believe we'd been headed. It was like a cloudy furnace outside, full of dark clouds and claps of distant thunder. We hadn't made it three blocks before it had begun to rain and then pour in the course of a few seconds. A few moments before we'd been slowing and laughing and saying we should probably turn back when we'd literally watched it come the down the street at us. We'd only managed a few steps back the way we'd came before it overtook us.

"Oh, my God!" Sam half screamed and I yelped the other half. "It's freezing!"

And it was. Before long we were drenched in an ice-cold downpour that made it hard to see to the end of the block. Although it felt like it was raining ice cubes mostly because it had been so hot before, our priorities quickly shifted from cooling off to avoiding hypothermia.

"Antarctic monsoon!" I'd shouted, laughing as hard as she was, even though I was actually pretty concerned about getting home before my mom came back.

So we retraced our steps with so much giggling and jostling into each other and shivering that I didn't ever want to get home, because I knew this sort of thing would never happen again. I didn't necessarily want to freeze to death either, but still.

When we finally made it back to Bushwell and up to our apartment there was suddenly the whole new problem of possessing soaked clothing that we weren't supposed to be in. And it was like coming back into a freezer. We rushed around while we were still shivering.

But it was kind of cool (as in not temperature-wise) how we'd immediately known what each of us needed to do. I rushed for my room and tossed her bag of clothes at her as she flew past on her way to the bathroom. And then I was doing my best to forcibly peel off my own clothes and dry myself as I tried hard not to think about what was happening in the next room.

So my mom found us a little breathless and still a little wet, but for all ready appearances on the sofa, watching television just like we had been before. She was in quite a hurry anyway, distractedly expounding to us the virtues of always carrying an umbrella. We dutifully nodded as she went on.

So there were more fits of giggles and whispers whenever we thought that she couldn't hear.

There were a few more hours of that. Of pleasantness.

But then I'd gotten hungry and my mom had fixed me an early supper that had included peas.

At the mere sight of those little green balls that I already knew Sam despised so much, she rushed off for the bathroom again. But she hadn't quite made it, losing in the hallway what little she'd drank before.

Maybe that had been enough to do it, or maybe she had also needed my mom politely ranting to her that she should've had something beside her. I couldn't really fault my mom too much. She'd been running herself ragged and hadn't gotten much sleep in the past few days.

Regardless, when Sam had finally made it back to the sofa, her good mood had packed up and left for the Sahara, in search of cooler climates. Everything else kind of went with it.

There had been some uneasy conversation between us, but it had been automatic and more than enough to make me feel guilty about this whole situation again. I was actually getting to be sicker of feeling guilty than of actually feeling sick.

It had been especially awkward sipping my soup of liquid motherly love with her beside me. I'd quickly disposed of the peas long before she'd gotten back, but the mere fact that I could safely ingest edible material didn't exactly do wonders for my guilt either.

"I just really want to get it, you know? I don't need it, I just—" I'd run out of things to say quite a while ago. I just was that desperate to keep talking to her. Why I needed to delve into tech talk that I knew she didn't care about I still don't know.

"I don't care." She finally said it. She made it sound as if it required an effort to be talking to me, even listening to me drone on when all I really wanted was to talk to her. And knowing her it probably did require an effort. But she could at least try, right? Sure she was probably feeling pretty miserable right now, but I was trying to help.

"You know, you could at least pretend to participate in the conversation." I was getting far too angry about this. Maybe I had just been spoiled by this present lull in hostilities.

"Do you _want_ me to lie?" she asked.

"It shouldn't bother you too much," I shot back.

Maybe I was just too caught between feeling like I owed her something big for her being here, and feeling like she owed me something big for being here.

"Whatever," she didn't even look at me as she pulled herself out of our blankets and stood up.

Somewhere about when she was halfway out of the room I realized what was wrong. Why I was acting all funny and annoying. I was disappointed. After everything that had happened over the past two days, after all the progress towards whatever we were progressing towards had happened, it was suddenly all too possible that it would be for nothing. She would forget or maybe not even notice to begin with and I'd be left with this. This same place I was always at. With the feeling that I was so close to something, but whenever I thought I caught a glimpse of it it seemed miles away. As unattainable as Carly Shay.

It took a minute of practically seething and my abrupt jump from the couch and storming of the hallway to my bedroom for me to realize that something was going to happen. And that came just in time to shut the bedroom door so that my mom wouldn't hear, though I could hardly manage to spare that much concern for those sorts of things in my present state.

"You know what?" I was nearly shouting, jabbing a finger at her.

She turned around from my computer, looking almost surprised and kind of quiet. "What?"

The finger I'd jabbed started moving around as I sought to get ahead of my thoughts. _What?_ That was actually a pretty good question that I had no real answer to; that didn't improve my mood.

She was just sitting there, staring back at me like she was expecting something big—and she _should_ be, dang it—but it was like it was something _good_. Like it was something she might want.

I was really tired of Sam knowing more than I did.

"This is not pleasant!" I probably said it because I needed to say something. But it came quick and easy, and the rest followed.

Her face fell.

"I'm sick of being sick with you being sick with me!" I continued.

"Oh, and it's a real awesome picnic of jank being stuck here with you too!" she shot back, surging to her feet.

"Well, maybe you should've thought of that before you kissed me!"

It wasn't a big deal, to finally say it and get it out in the open. It really wasn't. Which was why it seemed so wrong when her face grew all hurt and taken aback and un-Sam-like.

"You utterly—stupid—" She looked angry. She sounded angry.

"Yeah, yeah, what?" I demanded.

"Nub!" she shouted, a little more than sufficiently loud enough for my mom and probably the entire building to hear. "_You_ kissed _me_!"

Suddenly everything just kind of stopped. Unnaturally. Unpleasantly.

"So?" I managed as angrily as I could. It was a good question, because I couldn't seem to think clearly enough to figure out what that meant. I realized somewhere that I had structured everything since the whole kissing incident the wrong way. I'd been interpreting _everything_ the wrong way. I couldn't just reverse that in a few seconds—especially not these few seconds.

All I knew was I was at a loss, that I was suddenly the bad guy, and that I suddenly wanted all that to go away.

"So I made a big mistake," I emphasized it, doing my best to be mocking. "It's over. Get over it."

"Don't—don't do that—" she was shaking her head and looking furious.

"It doesn't matter—" I leaned my head in, "It doesn't. It doesn't matter so much that I'm going to tell everyone! Tell Carly—tell Spencer—_everyone_. Even my mom, because it doesn't matter at all." I watched her face and felt a kind of glee at the way it changed the further and deeper I went. It was such a rare kind of thing to see her face do that because of me. Because of anything really.

"I'll even tell _your _mom," I pressed further, waiting for her to say something, needing her to say something. But I knew I had gone far enough for that.

"She wouldn't care." But the spite or even the plain anger I wanted wasn't there. It was just like she said it to say something.

"Oh, yeah. That's right." I leaned in again. "She _doesn't_ care."

Whatever thought my neurons had been processing in that particular second was vaporized as my head exploded with an unpleasant sensation. My entire head from the jaw up was suddenly wrenched away hard enough to make more than a few things click.

I didn't even have a chance to reel before Sam followed her fist and fell on me. For a moment reality consisted of her hands pounding, punching, and scratching at me.

I was shouting something incoherently. There really wasn't even enough time to feel how badly it hurt. I just had to get her off of me.

There was some restraint in my efforts, even though every ungentleman instinct in me was screaming to punch back.

Fortunately she got off before I lowered myself to resorting to that.

I was pretty dizzy and throbbing everywhere, so I only managed to catch a glimpse of her flushed face before she stormed past me.

"You're a psycho!" I called after her just before my bedroom door slammed shut.

Needless to say the next stretch of time was spent in my bedroom, licking my wounds, so to say, and absolutely loathing Sam Puckett. It was actually the first time I realized that her last name rhymed with a very interesting two word phrase.

I didn't even manage to feel guilty about what I'd said. There was no doubt I would've if she hadn't tried to rip my head off. Literally.

Carly came in a few hours later.

"I will—I will—" Carly kept saying to my mother as she stepped inside my room and shut the door behind her. She tried to roll her eyes in a playful manner as she yanked off the breath mask my mother had given her, but I could see that she was well aware of at least the general atmosphere of the general situation. "Hey."

"Hey," I said. I turned away from my computer and rubbed at my forehead.

Carly quietly sat down at the edge of my bed. "So what happened?"

"Nothing," I said, too quickly of course. Because of course I knew that if Carly gathered even an inkling of what had happened, she'd promptly declare me a jerk.

"What happened to your cheek?" Carly asked a little bit more pointedly.

"Ran into a wall," I muttered.

"Yeah?" she asked with a sigh. "I couldn't get much out of the wall either. She's barely talking to me." She raised her eyebrows. "She says you two are having a great time. Something about running out in the rain today."

Wow. I'd already forgotten about that. It made me feel squirmy.

Had it really just been early that day?

"We are, everything's fine," I said.

"Freddie," she looked at me tiredly, and I idly wondered how much homework she had tonight, and if my little life problems were cutting into it. "It won't hurt anything if you just tell me."

"Look, nothing happened, okay?" I said, but she didn't look entirely deterred. "I can handle it."

"So is it an 'it,' or a 'nothing'? Make up your mind." She tried to laugh. It didn't work.

"_It _is a _psycho_," I muttered.

"Has your mom seen you yet?" Carly reached up to gingerly touch my cheek, which responded smartly with shooting pains.

"So—" I jerked away from her and clapped my hands in a forced kind of happy, "What happened at school today? Anything interesting?"

Carly looked genuinely sad. A sad and tired Carly was enough to make me feel miserable even on the best of days. "Promise me that you'll work it out?"

I looked at her, suddenly feeling put on the spot. It was a promise I wasn't going to make, even with all the sad puppy dog eyes in the world, Carly's included.

So I just pressed my lips together and she eventually got the picture. I hoped she at least appreciated that I wasn't trying to lie to her.

And after a minute or so of awkward silence Carly launched into a play by play description of another mundane school day. Highlights included—well, okay. I couldn't really remember since I wasn't really paying attention. Just kind of sitting there, nodding every so often and waiting for when she would leave and I would be alone again.

"Oh yeah, and there's a new girl."

_Whoopee._

Carly frowned. "I heard her name is Amelia and she's from—I don't know, somewhere."

_Fabulous._

"She seemed really nice though, you know? Pretty too."

_And what is that supposed to mean?_

But it didn't take long before Carly left with a disappointed good bye and I was finally left feeling some real guilt. It was relatively rare enough when I got to talk to Carly as it was. But I supposed my batting average for today was already a lost cause anyway.

When I went to bed early, I was left with the positive thought that I was well enough to go to school tomorrow—and get as far away from Sam as possible.


	6. Chapter 5

"I _know_, but she can't help it, she's just naturally vicious."

--Freddie Benson

i'M Sick of This Feeling – Chap. v

_"Hey, dork."_

_I whirled around, not quite horrified to see her walking towards me, plastic bag with her gym stuff in one hand and her hair wet._

_I couldn't find anything to say. She quickly took in my embarrassing attire, consisting of my gym shirt, boxers, and nothing else, along with the way I was leaning against the door to the boys locker room. I wished I could melt through that door, disappear from her amused and deceptively sympathetic expression. The only way this could get any more embarrassing was if Carly showed up. Not that she had any P.E. classes this semester._

_"I take it they were calling you a dork, too," she looked like she was genuinely trying not to laugh, "And pushing you out of the locker room ... again."_

_It wasn't the first time this year that I didn't care all that much for the new joys of High School._

_"It's all in good fun," I said sarcastically, because there really wasn't anything else for me to say. I wished my cheeks weren't burning so badly._

_"Freddie, I'd give you some life advice right now," she started to pick through my gym bag that they'd thrown out into the hall. It was too bad they hadn't been nice enough to include my pants. "... But I think a demonstration is better."_

_"What are you doing?" I asked, stepping away and feeling something akin to hopeful. Not that I wanted her to go in there and beat them all up, but ... it made for an appealing thought._

_But she was going to do something._

_She hushed me as she pulled my aluminum deodorant bottle, the kind that mom always bought me, out of my bag and stepped over to the locker room door. At some point she had procured a small tack hammer from her bag. I didn't even want to know what she carried that around for._

_With a practiced air she leaned against the door, opening it a little as she positioned my deodorant bottle up against the frame._

_"Hey, Freddieee—" Cat calls came through the partially open door. "Do you want your pants back? We might email them to you—"_

_Sam slammed the hammer down near the tip of the bottle, pulled away from the immediate burst, and then chucked it underhand through the door like a grenade._

_Before I could put words to my pointing finger she was pulling me along down the hallway and away from the overpowering odor and startled shouts echoing from inside the locker room. We had just made it around the corner when we heard the door burst open and what probably amounted to the room's immediate occupants pouring out. I could smell it even from the other end of the hallway._

_"But my pants—" I managed, still trying to catch up with everything. Not that that particular pair of pants would probably be wearable anytime before Christmas—2040 A.D. I'm not exactly sure what the half life for concentrated deodorant is._

_"Here—" Sam sighed as she dragged me, "Put these on."_

_She sounded like she was annoyed with the whole ordeal, and she also seemed to avoid my cheeky and uncontainable smile for the rest of the day, though she was rarely able to keep from smiling a little as well._

And even though I'd worn girl sweatpants until I'd gotten home, and the jocks had obliged Sam's favor by giving me a swirly following the next gym class ... it had been a good day.

That memory was what I had to wake to. That and the fact that Sam was still on my floor.

I left for school long before she woke up.

--

Okay, so I might have been rushing the whole not-sick thing a little bit. I picked up a headache that wasn't totally there somewhere in the morning, and my mouth had that slimy taste that didn't go away, no matter how much water I drank and how many times I spit.

Lunch helped, but I was still essentially dragging myself through the motions. It was just another day as a sophomore, the year still being new enough that everything hadn't quite fallen from familiar into routine. Still, these three weeks were working up to that pretty fast.

I was essentially counting the minutes until the end of the day when I should've been paying attention, especially given how far I'd fallen behind. All the while I was essentially regretting that I was wishing time was passing at all. After all, the end of school meant another beginning of her.

I had given my pain and suffering a name, and it was Sam.

So I was stuck hating myself for measuring the seconds. But that changed rather abruptly. It happened during Chemistry.

"Oh, Miss Puckett is still absent?"

I vaguely registered Mr. Kinney, our science teacher, say this. I vaguely turned to listen, but quickly lost all sense of vagueness when I saw that Mr. Kinney was talking to a brown haired girl holding her books in front of her.

"Yes, we'll need you to partner up for today," Mr. Kinney turned and I started a bit when he looked at me, "Uh, Mr. Benson?"

My heart was suddenly pounding. Sam was always my lab partner.

And Sam wasn't here.

"Yes, you'll be pairing up with that boy there today. Now find your seats quickly everyone," Mr. Kinney called as he rose from his desk and made for the front.

But I wasn't watching him.

She looked nervous, timid practically. Her eyes were everywhere but on me as she walked towards my lab bench.

"Hi," she said, finally looking up when she stopped in front of me, "My—uh, I guess I'm going to be working with you today."

"Yeah, hi," I said, a little startled to discover how not-easy it was to talk. I got paired with a cute girl because Sam was sick? What were the odds?

But then Mr. Kinney began talking about something to do with chemistry, or at least that's what I assume he was talking about. The girl quickly sat down in the stool next to mine and began unpacking her things.

Between my headache and trying to sneak glances at her and marveling at how unreal this all seemed—a completely different girl that looked like _that_ sitting in_ Sam's_ seat—I was fairly preoccupied.

She was slight and—different. Like a rare variety of soft that was ... well, rare. And bright. She kind of reminded me of Carly—only not. Shannon maybe? Nah.

I couldn't really help myself. Maybe it was because I'd been subjected to Sam at close quarters for so long that this girl seemed so mesmerizing. Maybe the reason why my Carly-and-me-together-forever-induced-guilt response stalled in kicking in, and was fairly weak at that, was because my resistance towards Sam and her unfortunate possession of her more attractive appeals had been on the verge of crumbling for days. And at least with that there'd been the whole friendship thing to keep things in hand. Not that I could really see myself getting anything resembling out of hand thinking about this girl. It just naturally seemed wrong.

She was probably the most innocent thing I'd ever shared a sentence with.

She caught me glancing at her once, and sort of smiled shyly and looked back up towards the front.

Mr. Kinney went through whatever he was talking about fairly quickly and told the class to begin on the lab we'd been handed. I only needed a glance to relieve myself of the notion that it would be very difficult, even with how much I'd missed.

"So ..." I turned towards her, "You just moved here—recently?"

Why was this so hard? I hadn't had a hard time talking to girls in—well, ever really.

"Yes, my name's Amelia."

"I'm Freddie."

She smiled a little and went on. "Me and my family just moved all of our stuff here this weekend. My dad got a big job at the software plant—"

"Oh, yeah," I put in.

"Oh, do you know it?" she asked, sounding a little hopeful.

"Oh ... no ..."

_Whoops._

"Well," she pressed on, "Yesterday was actually my first day here, but I had to have some stuff done at the office, so I missed this class yesterday." She paused for a moment.

_Say something, say something—_

I smiled and nodded slightly.

She dropped her eyes from my face for a moment. "So ... um."

It took me an uncomfortable second to realize that she was trying to bring up the subject of my face. Or more specifically the bruised parts of it, which were still excessively visible, despite my botched attempts to cover it with some of my mom's makeup this morning. "Oh, this?" I laughed a little and the way she joined in confirmed that was what she meant. "It's nothing ... I just ... ran into a wall."

"Oh, you must've hit it really hard, that must've been terrible—"

"No, no," I said in what I hoped passed as a tough sounding voice, "It's no big deal." And it wasn't. "It happens ..." Pause. "Not that it happens often—or at all—usually." I laughed a little nervously, watching her face change the farther I fumbled. "No, I don't ... walk into walls often—" I sort of gave up.

"Well anyway, I guess since we're—lab partners and all," she laughed a little, "We should go get our stuff."

"Right, we should definitely do that," I blurted, at first glad just to be able say something; after that, pretty much horrified at my boundless tact.

"Okay," she started to stand up, coming off her stool from the left. I decided to stand up from the right, like I always did. Near awkward collision ensued.

"Oh, I'm sorry—" she said in an embarrassed voice as she started to sit.

I'd already started to do the same. "No, it's okay—really—"

We went through those motions one more time. She was blushing profusely well before we were done.

Somewhere in the middle of that I belatedly realized that Sam always got up off her stool from the right—when she bothered to get up that is.

"It's all right, I'll get the stuff," I remained standing.

"Oh, that's sweet of you."

"Ah, yeah," I managed, faced with the uncomfortable notion that I might be coming off too blatantly as trying to be the gentleman. I just needed a little damage control. Funny how I always got everything for Sam, gentleman or not. "Well, I know where everything is and—I'll go get it."

"Okay," she said.

While I was walking away I remembered that I was supposed to be having a bad day. I was still sort of sick and was having record level difficulties with my two best friends, one slightly more than the other. I had already more than resigned myself to be miserable for an indefinite period of the near future.

It was strange how something new could make everything change.

But surely this girl that I was going to be sharing a lab bench with for one class period hadn't done that, had she?

I furtively looked back over my shoulder. She was sitting there with a hand over her mouth, quietly laughing to herself. When she caught me looking again she smiled but didn't turn away this time.

That was the happiest trip to the safety goggles rack I would probably ever take.

Suddenly it was hard to remember just what I had been so resigned to be miserable about.

--

It was easily the best chemistry period I'd had so far this year. And that was saying something since it was one of my favorite classes to begin with. If I was honest enough to myself about Sam, something that becoming harder and harder to do, I would say that I almost always enjoyed that class with her. Sure, the insults were generally a bit more abrasive. There was also the tension of always trying hard to prove that I was smart to her and not mess up our lab work. But it wasn't so bad, even if she did make me get, do, write, explain, formulate, plan, listen, and pour virtually everything, along with basically every other verb in the English dictionary that pertained or could ever possibly pertain to the class. All with what amounted to negative amounts of gratitude, might I add. And I might.

Why was it then that I enjoyed doing it with her? I decided to put that one on the world's largest back burner, which was quickly culminating into my future book, "Mysteries of Sam: The Most Mysterious of the Mysterious Female Species."

But getting back on track from future Pulitzer winners, I had a great time with Amelia. It was almost enough to let me forget that there was still a blond vial of plutonium sitting in my bedroom, probably doing unmentionable things to my tech equipment. Like doing things to my computers she'd actually like to be doing to me.

I was still musing if it was technically possible for a computer to be castrated when I found myself in front of my door, breathing heavily and wishing I wasn't.

But as it turned out I had little to fear as my mother immediately informed me that Sam's mom had come and picked her up around noon.

I was somewhere between disappointed and crushed. Which was of course a natural reaction after having worked myself up to what I had been all day. Whatever that was.

So I was left with a quiet and by most accounts homicide-free evening. And it sucked eggs. I had this lethargic disposition of not feeling like doing anything and hating that I was just wasting time. Long gone was that upbeat stuff I'd gotten from Amelia.

It had finally happened. Sam was gone from my apartment, maybe for good. Maybe forever.

In dreading the following day of school where there was at least a low double digit percent chance that Sam would be there, I began to get even angrier at her. For just about everything in general. I easily passed the slight emotional dip of guilty undertow I hadn't even noticed picking up before, and was up to despising levels well before I got to school.

--

At lunch it was a chore to sit where we always sat, because that meant I had to sit within conversation distance of Sam. But it was vital to keep up the whole nothing-is-wrong shtick at all costs.

"Could you pass the restraining order?" I made an exaggerated face. "Whoops, I mean the _ketchup_."

Carly looked at me with an unreadable expression. Sam just rolled her eyes and obliged without saying anything.

"Well, this is great fun. Yeah, a fun time," Carly murmured, but stopped when Sam and me both stared at her. She groaned. "It's been so much fun sitting with you two chatter boxes, but I've got to get to class."

_No, you've got to go to another one of those extracurricular things that are slowly sucking your soul away._ Seriously, anything that overlapped lunch, no matter by how little, was not worth it.

I of course didn't voice that line of thought, but I figured it was probably pretty mild compared to what Sam was thinking judging from the look on her face.

Then Carly was gone, leaving me all alone with Sam and the building need to verbally hurt her. It would've been nice to know why I was so angry, but it didn't really matter.

"So, what's it going to be?" I put my elbows on the table and leaned forward, going into game show host mode. "Is Contestant P—P for Psycho—going to take her unsightly-ness and leave—as she should—or is she going to be unable to resist grazing on the rest of her feed?"

It just wasn't enough. I wanted to call her a cow, a delinquent, a loser, all those names that I never would've before because that would've been crossing a line.

I really had been stupid, stupid enough to believe that there was any sort of line.

It almost looked like my words were having some kind of effect. The stare she returned didn't look all that sturdy, but then again she still probably wasn't feeling all that sturdy around food yet. There was no way I would be able to verbally hurt her. But I had to try.

"Mm," I took a bite, "And it's Salisbury steak today. It must make it such a difficult decision. In fact, ladies and gentlemen, I bet she couldn't even get up if—"

She stood up.

Before I could say anything else she leaned over and tipped the rest of her milk over my tray.

I caught the briefest look on her face before I was left staring at her retreating back.

When I looked down at my tray, I didn't see the milk or even the forlorn bit of soggy Salisbury.

What had that been? That look—

I pounded my fist on the table, wishing that would fix it. Wishing that could just erase the last ten seconds and everything accompanying it.

But it didn't, and the seconds stretched on and things changed.

It wasn't my fault if she couldn't take it. I'd been taking it from her for so long I practically owed her this and so much more. If there was any justice in the universe that was.

I just had to do something. I didn't like it this way, I didn't like this sort of low feeling, but it's all I had. I only hoped she was feeling a fraction of—

"Hi, Freddie."

My mind wasn't exactly in a hospitable state, so I didn't acknowledge or even really process the greeting until Amelia and the other girls with her were well past.

Belatedly I spun around to watch them as they walked away.

It hit me so suddenly and completely that I was left feeling pretty stupid.

I could date Amelia. I could date anyone I wanted, I just hadn't realized it until now. I was free to do whatever I wanted, not what I was supposed to do, like date Carly, or what I really needed to do—which no longer included anything to do with Sam Puckett.

I could do it, I really could do it.

And I would be perfectly within my right.

But—it wasn't that simple. Was it?

I found myself standing, walking, then disposing of my lunch—or what was left of it—before I could really think about it. It was like my feet were moving on their own accord, telling me that it really was possible.

It was such an intoxicating idea. But there was something wrong with it.

I picked up pace, hurrying after where I'd last seen Amelia and the others heading. But I wasn't able to catch sight of them. Coasting to a stop, I checked the time and headed to my locker. There was no hurry, I would catch her in Chemistry.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head against my locker door. Why had I made up my mind on this already? _How _had I made his mind up on this? I couldn't even remember, but suddenly this seemed like an idea that I couldn't go back on anymore. Like I had already asked her.

_I can date anyone._ But every time I thought that, even tried to think that, something inside balked. There were rules, things I just _couldn't_ do, right?

_Anyone._

At that point it went from intoxicating to frightening.

But Amelia wasn't just anyone, so obviously there wasn't a problem.

I rolled my forehead around the front of my locker.

--

"Hi," I said two periods later, giving the greeting I'd agonizingly settled on.

"Hi, Freddie," Amelia looked up and gave me a smile that she apparently didn't mind giving more than once a day.

"Have you, um, seen what we're doing today?" I asked, deciding to stick to the script as I sat down in the stool next to her.

"Oh, something about valence electrons," she said, "I think it's up there on the board."

_Stupid, stupid—_

"Oh, oh yeah," I said, mentally wincing. "So it is."

"Oh," Amelia looked towards the door, "Is that your friend that was sick?"

I gave the barest glance, just enough to confirm that it was Sam. "Yeah. That's her."

"Well …" Amelia twiddled with her fingers, "Aren't you going to go sit with her?"

"Do you want me to?" It was out before I could think better of it. And I could've.

"No, no," she said hurriedly and tried to laugh a little, "It's just that I don't want to think that you're sitting with me just because I'm new ... if you'd rather sit with her."

"No, it's not like that." I didn't have to fake my smile.

"I mean I really loved being your lab partner yesterday. I had such a great time," she lowered her voice a little, "I was so scared yesterday when I walked in. I bet everyone saw it."

"No, you were great," I said. I'd fallen into letting her talk, because I apparently couldn't.

She looked at me in a way that made everything all squirmy and uncomfortable. "I'm sure someone like you never has to worry about that sort of thing."

"I think you'd be surprised," I laughed along with her, wringing my hands underneath the table.

_Just talk, just talk to her—_

"Okay, students, please take your seats," Mr. Kinney said as he walked in. There was a general movement to comply.

And then suddenly there were two girls looking at me. One with a questioning, but guardedly hopeful expression. The other I did my best not to look at at all, but I was more than capable of picking up her stormy expression. She turned back towards the front when it became apparent that I wasn't moving.

Did I mention that it seemed extremely weird for Amelia to be sitting in Sam's seat? Like Lewbert in a leotard kind of weird.

"Today we're going to explore the fascinating topic of valence electrons and what role they play within the atom," Mr. Kinney began, officially sealing the matter of seating arrangements. He was all bluster and confidence for the notion that the class did in fact care to a great degree about the subject, just like he was overly confident about everything.

"Now this is a simple equation where we can see the result—" he pointed to board, "Eight, being the result of—"

"Dude, that looks like a five," Sam spoke up in a decidedly grouchy sounding voice.

"Why that's—that's correct." Mr. Kinney took a closer look at the very distinctive five drawn on the board and scratched his head. "But that can't be correct—where did—no, this can't be right. _Wrong, wrong, wrong_—" He was quietly muttering under his breath in an increasingly distressed voice as he distractedly used his free hand to wring at his little bit of hair.

There was some subdued chatter and giggles as Mr. Kinney's confusion escalated. This wasn't a rare thing however. The way Mr. Kinney over zealously plunged into everything often caused this sort of stuff, producing either a really angry or a really self-deprecating teacher. Which was all very amusing, for the first week or so.

However, the effect hadn't had time to wear itself out for Amelia yet. She was in the biggest fit of giggles in the class, and I found the way she tried and utterly failed to politely hide them was much funnier than anything else that was happening. She had an infectious giggle, subdued or not. It was all light and prim without being contrived. It was—something I was not used to, unsurprising considering my choice of friends.

"I'm sorry," she tried when she caught me staring and smiling back at her, "It's just—are all of your teachers this ... unusual?"

"Believe me, this is _nothing_." I said it in a way that made her giggle harder.

And suddenly it wasn't so hard. It wouldn't be a big deal to ask her. It wouldn't be wrong, despite all my vague apprehensions that it would be. Carly obviously wouldn't mind—that is if she even noticed. And Sam—well Sam could go to happy hobo acres for all I cared.

So it didn't turn out to be such a big deal waiting through the rest of class, making jokes that Amelia laughed at, and honestly too. What a refreshing change. It was almost disconcerting for me, to be laughed _with_ rather than _at_.

But I honestly tried not to enjoy the way Sam looked throughout class, and honestly it was hard to keep track or even remember to with Amelia there. But it wasn't hard to miss her sour expression she wore throughout her lab with Aaron and Billy. They were a pair of perpetual slack offs with a seedier sort of air, the kind that hung out at the fringes of class and everything else they could in the pursuit of cool; which was just perfect for Sam.

There was a pang of guilt at that.

No, it wasn't perfect for Sam. She wasn't like that, but I wasn't responsible for who she was forced to hang out with. I'd had to endure her as a lab partner all year so far, and while Amelia was hardly the best partner of all time, she was leagues ahead of Sam simply on the mere fact that she actually tried.

And so after a little loosening up it didn't turn out to be such a big deal either when I walked Amelia to her locker, probably coming in at somewhere between the top of my game and Don Juan material as I carefully maneuvered the conversation towards what she was doing this weekend.

Sam opened her locker from a few down the row.

I said it. Or asked it. Whatever, I did it.

Amelia looked at me. For that moment all I could see were her eyes and the way they widened. She was probably surprised that I would ask so soon. I was sort of surprised that I would ask so—

She said yes. And smiled. Beamed, really.

My breath came out in a whoosh of, "Great!"

We both relaxed a little and the conversation turned to details. Of time, what sort of food she liked—

There was an abrupt hand on my shoulder, applied force, and then I was flaying into the lockers. It wouldn't have been so bad if Sam's aim had been just a little less perfect, and I hadn't stumbled into Amelia's open locker.

There was some stumbling on my part as I tried to regain my balance without pulling all her books down, and a whole lot of exclamations on Amelia's part as she tried to steady me.

But with all the practice I'd had over time with this sort of thing, I was able to keep from totally making a scene and making it look passable too, given the circumstances.

"Oh, my gosh, are you okay? Who was that?" Amelia tried to look down the hall, but evidently Sam was out of sight already. "Who would do a thing like that?"

I forcefully straightened out my shirt, utterly regretting any guilty feelings I'd ever had about Sam.

"No one."

--

**AN:** I'd just like to take the time to thank all the people who left such awesome reviews for this.

Also of note, yes, Mr. Kinney is my sad attempt at making a funny iCarly teacher (nothing measures up to their computer teacher). Also, Spencer has been absent thus far, but he is coming.

And yes, Freddie is acting like a jerk. But it'll get better, I promise! I promise! I think ...


	7. Chapter 6

"Yeah, like how the Titanic staying afloat didn't go so well."

--Sam Puckett

i'M Sick of Making it Worse -- Chap iv

-

"I can't believe it," she giggled again and looked at me. Then frowned again. "You're lying to me."

"No, no I'm not," I laughed and looked up from the sidewalk at her, "We do it all the time from Carly's apartment, which is just across from mine. Me, her, and Sam."

"That is _so _weird," Amelia laughed. "Because I always heard about it all the time from around school—"

"But you never watched it," I pretended to pout and she pushed at my arm.

"We didn't have the Internet!" she protested.

"Is that even possible?"

"So you guys do all sorts of crazy stuff all the time, and thousands of people watch it? And _you_ run it?" She sounded impressed. It felt good.

"Yeah, pretty much," I tried not to sound like what she was making me feel.

"That is _so _cool. So ..." she looked over at me, "I get to see you on the Internet tonight?"

"Well ... you might hear me ... I'm not actually in front of the camera very often. It's really Carly and Sam who do all that."

She was quiet for a moment. "So they're like your best friends, huh?"

It was in these kinds of moments that it was sort of embarrassing to have two girls as your best friends. It was usually worse admitting it in front of other guys, but I'd been doing so great so far with Amelia that it was more than enough to make me cringe. Plus there were all those nasty female undercurrents that went along with stuff like that that I probably would never understand.

"Yeah." So I just left it at that.

She was staring at the sidewalk when I risked a sideways glance at her. But suddenly it was okay not to be saying anything. It was almost kind of nice. So I walked along beside her, kicking at the yellow leaves that were starting to appear at the edges of the sidewalk.

The air was a noticeably cool shade of warm, and it was hard to believe that just two days ago me and Sam had been sweltering in my apartment. But now there was that definite smell of fall in the air.

Everything else in my life was kind of in shambles. But this ... this was nice. I found myself wishing it could stay like this, with things messed up everywhere else, but pleasant here. That would be okay.

"Well, I go this way," she was saying, her eyes back on mine, "I guess I'll see you later."

"Yeah, I'll see you later," I said, feeling a little bit of everything as she gave a small wave and turned off.

A date. I had a date with her this weekend. We both tried to pretend that it wasn't that serious, for various reasons, but it was.

I gave myself a deep breath and smiled.

--

"Now isn't that ironical?" Carly asked mock-seriously into the camera, nodding her head to indicate that it was indeed.

"And just in case you couldn't figure it out," Sam said, "That is _not _a hillbilly word. And why is that important Carly?"

"I think you know, Sam," Carly answered.

"But I want you to say it," Sam rolled in her eyes and then whispered loudly, "Play along!"

"Okay, let's do it together," Carly suggested.

"Okay," Sam said and they both leaned in and shouted, "Because it's National Hillbilly Week!"

Sam made a crazy and absurdly loud "Hillbilly" noise. Or I assume that's what it was supposed to be. I held my free hand to my ear and tried not to look at her.

"Where would civilization be without the many contributions of the Hillbilly?" Carly asked gravely.

I flipped on our image of a Hillbilly in a caveman-discovering-fire situation for the browser. This all was done with the practiced flip of a switch, with absolutely zero camera shake, might I humbly add.

I caught Sam glancing at me, and not for the first time in my life I wondered if she had a built in sixth-sense that was able to detect the degree of nerd in my thoughts.

"Wondering what road kill is for, that's where," Sam answered.

"And without Hillbillies, we wouldn't have words like ain't, lickety-split—"

"Try talking thems Englash without them words," Sam smirked at what she evidently took to be Hillbilly speech.

"Without Hillbillies we'd be hopelessly sophisticated." Carly threw her hands up.

"Without Hillbillies, my Great Aunt Peg would've never run off to Arkansas!" Sam followed suit.

"Home of Mall-Mart," Carly added helpfully.

"And now the dozen and a half cousins we have to send Christmas presents to," Sam's eyes narrowed, "Thanks a lot, Aunt Peg."

"Sam!" Carly whispered. "They might be watching!"

Sam pffed. "They don't have the Internet in Arkansas."

I couldn't help it. It was funny. And probably true.

Sam spared me the shortest glare in history, as if daring me to laugh again.

I made a face at her that I hoped she realized was supposed to represent vomiting.

Somewhere between the second and third rounds of faces we made at each other Carly noticed.

"Ohhh-kaaaay," she said quickly. It probably did look kind of weird to the viewers watching Sam making inexplicably angry faces at the camera. "We're going to move onto our next segment."

"Oh. Yeah. Right," Sam said unenthusiastically as she went off camera and out the studio door.

"While Sam is getting ready," Carly continued, "We thought we would leave it up to you, our iCarly viewers, to decide what would be the best name for this segment. Right now we're split between 'Need for Feed' and 'Scarf or Barf' ... but those just don't quite seem to ring." She leaned in conspiratorially towards the camera and lowered her voice. "Plus we want to keep this PG, so ..." she raised her voice again, "Feel free—obliged even—to send us some of your ideas. Just drop a piece of Elec—tronic—amic," she slipped into Hillbilly again for a second, "Mail into our virtual little mail slot to let us know.

"But now it's time to welcome our first contestant, my brother Spencer!" Carly gestured towards the door where Spencer ran in with his hands in the air. He slowed and stopped when he saw that it was just Carly clapping and shouting his name.

He dropped his hands. "I was told there was going to be applause."

"Oh," Carly said in an embarrassed voice as she reached over and tapped the applause button on Sam's remote. "Sorry."

"I'll never forgive you," Spencer said in a monotone voice, waiting for a second at Carly's expression, "Kidding! I am ready to go and mega psyched!" He threw his hands out in front of him and made a confused face. "What do I do?!"

"You can step right over here—" Carly led him by the arm over to a seat and table loaded with hot dogs, buns, related paraphernalia, and another chair. "And sit."

"All right," Spencer said as he sat down, but just as quickly bounced back up, "So who am I going at? Huh? It isn't that creepy little Emmett kid, is it? Come on, I want to know!"

"Uh, Spencer?" Carly asked with a slight frown. "You didn't have any spoonfuls of sugar just now, did you?"

"I—" Spencer started, but then looked at her with a slightly jittery look. "It helps calm my nerves."

"I _told_ you not to," Carly said sternly.

"Yeah, but ... isn't there some law against embarrassing older siblings on the—" Spencer turned his head to where I had moved in close with the camera. "—Internet—" He jerked back in surprise. "Geez."

"Sorry," I said and stepped back a little.

"Okay, so to recap exactly what is going on for all you out there," Carly said, "Spencer and another contestant are going to be engaging in what is known in some parts of the world—including Arkansas—as a hot dog eating contest. The rules are simple—at the end of five minutes, whoever has completely swallowed the most hot dogs is the winner and will win not only everlasting Internet fame, but a pair of tickets to the Seattle Music Fest!"

"Yay!" Spencer ... well, Spencer squealed. "I mean, ahem, yes. But I am ready, ready to ravage some weenies, because I AM—" He leaped on top of his chair. "SPENCER THE DISPENCER!"

Carly made an effort at a smile at the camera as she tugged Spencer's arm and dragged him back down into his chair. "No more sugar for you. Ever."

"All right," Spencer said quietly as he put his head down.

"Okay! So let's get this weeny show cooking!" Carly hit the drum roll button on Sam's remote, "Now give it up for contestant number two!"

"Wait, who is it? Who is it?" Spencer was grinning and trying to peer around Carly at the door, "Who is—"

I could tell the exact moment when he caught sight of Sam. Spencer let out this sort of strangled peacock sound.

"Oh—My—God—" Spencer turned wild eyes on Carly.

"I am ready and super excited for this," Sam said in the most unexcited voice I'd probably ever heard her use. She was wearing a paper bib and one of those goofy little hats the Chinese restaurant down the street gave out.

"This—wait—please—" Spencer clawed at Carly's arm, but she brushed him off, "Mercy ... please ..."

"So let's get this show on the road," Sam sat down opposite Spencer. "Tech weeny, put five minutes on the clock."

"Isn't he the tech producer?" Spencer asked as Carly hit him back into his seat.

"Same difference," Sam said as she fixed a hot dog and delicately stuffed it into her mouth.

I executed probably one of the best eye rolls of my career, but she didn't even bother to look at me as she finished swallowing her hot dog.

"She shouldn't be doing that, can—can she be doing that?" Spencer asked as he scooted over towards Carly, where she beat him back into his seat with a significant expression.

"I find that food helps to calm me for these things," Sam answered. I think if she had been any calmer it probably wouldn't have been healthy.

"Do you do these things regularly?" Spencer whispered.

Sam shrugged.

Carly was giving me the emergency eyebrow signal that we used to indicate the possibility of cutting a segment off.

"Doesn't matter," Spencer declared, bravado suddenly recovered, "I shall employ my superior stomach capacity and age earned experience—"

"Yeah, yeah, let's go gramps," Sam said.

"And remember!" Spencer jabbed a finger at her, then moved it around the room. "Remember! I have the patience of an oyster!"

There were a long few seconds of silence.

"Of an oyster!" Spencer repeated. "Do you get it? Oyster ... pearls? Making pearls?"

"Yeah, we get it," Carly said in an unimpressed voice. "But there's a five minute time limit."

Spencer's bravado disintegrated. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"All right, here we go!" Carly said. "On your mark!"

"Did I mess up supper last night?" Spencer asked in a pained voice.

"Get set!"

Sam was doing arm stretches.

"Put your homework through the wash?" Spencer asked.

"Go!" Carly shouted and I hit the timer.

It was horrifying yet oddly one of the most mesmerizing things I'd ever witnessed. She was like a paper shredder on steroids, or weeny shredder I guess.

It was so mesmerizing in fact that Carly had to bump me about halfway through it to remind me to turn the camera back to Spencer, who was attempting to manually force four hot dogs into his mouth, plus their accompanying buns.

Roughly four minutes later we called it early in order to avoid a call for the paramedics. Sam looked up a little surprised. And then kept eating.

"So there you have it, we declare Sam the winner and recipient of two tickets to the Seattle Music Fest!" Carly handed Sam the tickets, which she waved off.

"Mmet me minish," Sam managed.

Carly hit the cheering button on Sam's remote.

I briefly turned the camera to where Spencer was leaning back in his chair, incoherently moaning something about it being physically impossible. By most accounts it should've been—if Sam's stomach obeyed the laws of nature and dimensions, that is.

"And I think that'll have to do for this week. And kids," Carly leaned in close, "Don't try this at home. What you just witnessed here was done by trained professionals."

"And we're ... clear." I put the camera down.

"Sorry, guys," Spencer said, "I really didn't ... mean ..."

"Ah, come on," Carly said as she helped him to his feet and slung his arm over her shoulders. "It's not your fault, it was just the sugar—which you're never having again."

"M'kay," Spencer murmured in a queasy sounding voice as he limped along with her out the door.

I had that horrible I'm-alone-with-Sam feeling a moment before they rounded the corner. Risking it, I glanced at her, but she was looking off to the side and slowly taking off her bib and little Chinese hat. And not giving any signs that she was going to vacate the room anytime in the near future.

Sighing in annoyance, I started the post-iCarly stuff I had to do.

"Listen, we need to talk."

She nearly scared me half to death.

"Oh, do we?" I asked sarcastically, remembering a time not all that long ago when I had wanted to talk to her about something. It was a good thing that had never happened.

"Yeah, we do," Sam stood up, all commanding and evidently full of the belief that I was going to go along with her. Ha. "I know that you're all in a nerdy little fit because I hit you ... if you had a male ego it would probably be in a fit too."

"It's too bad you don't have a _female_ ego," I threw out my face in emphasis, not at all worried if this particular comeback made any sense, "Because then that would have never happened."

"Is that why you kissed me?" Sam shot back. "Are you more attracted to male egos?"

_I'm not going to get mad. I'm not going to get drawn into her childish little arguments._

But okay, I was mad. She was talking about the kiss thing like it was nothing, just another bit leading up to another punchline that didn't matter.

"I've had it with you, okay? Don't you get it? I don't want to talk to you! So just—just—"

"Yeah, yeah, what?" Sam inclined her ear. "If you'd quit throwing a dorky little hissy fit for a minute and just shut up, I'd apologize to you!"

"Do you think I _care _if you apologize?" I shouted back. Honestly I was a little surprised that she was even able to pronounce that particular A word, but I was serious. I didn't care.

"Yeah, you do, and you know it," Sam answered. Like she knew me.

"No I don't!"

"Listen," Sam closed her eyes, "I was ... thinking that I would make it up to you by giving you one of the tickets."

"To the Music Fest?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"To go with ... you?" I asked, throwing in a little more of the situation's absurdity I was feeling.

Sam nodded, not looking quite so confident anymore.

I suddenly realized that this wasn't easy for her. And not just the apologizing part. She was staking a part of herself in this. She was opening herself up like she rarely ever did. The Sam I had first become friends with, or even the Sam of a year ago would've never done this.

"But don't you remember, I'm sure you heard," I said, feeling it push behind me. This situation was so perfect. I don't think I could've stopped if I had wanted to.

Sam looked confused.

"I'm ... _preoccupied_ this weekend."

Sam's face hardened a bit as she caught on. "It's not like it has to be at any particular time."

"I'm already going on a date," I yelled, "Do you think I want to go on one with you?"

"It's not a date," she yelled back, beginning to look genuinely angry. It was about time.

"Don't play dumb, I'm sick of you doing that—" I started, suddenly going off on an unexpected tangent. Unexpected to me anyway.

"What? Do—what?" She was nearly to screaming levels now, as she enunciated every word.

"Play pretend. Oh, it's not a date," I mimicked a girly voice, "Oh, I didn't really want you to kiss me. I just was acting all friendly and soft around your place for the fun of it." I swear my head was involuntarily shaking. It was almost kind of scary. "You're such a liar. About everything."

"Take that back," she sounded practically murderous, "You don't mean it. Take it back."

"It's the truth," I narrowed my eyes. It was so much nicer not to be afraid of her.

"The truth? You want the truth?" She was yelling again. "How about you've been acting like a jerk all year. There's some truth you can stick right up your attitude. You've been taking this whole little emo thing out on everyone—on your mom—me—the only one you're not is your precious little Carly cakes!"

"That's it, isn't it?" This particular revelation felt particularly good. I only wished I could make her feel bad even the smallest fraction of how good it felt to me. "You have no one to take with you. _No one._ Carly's too busy, always too busy, and now Sam has no friends. What are you going to do? Pay some random person from school to go with you? All of them are either afraid of you or hate you because you do some popular kiddy web show."

She was fuming, and was looking like she was going to break one way. Either to hit me or leave. But that didn't matter so much as the look she was wearing. We both knew I was right.

"So where were we?" I asked, knowing it just had to go on a little further. It was like I could feel how close she was to breaking; I could feel a lot of stuff, like the heat that seemed like it was radiating off her. And her face was—I wish her face wasn't like that. I had to hate the fact that she was anything above ugly. "Oh yeah, truth. You want to know the truth? No one likes you, no one _can _like you unless you act like someone else. That brings us to lies, like the way you had to act around Jonah. As in not you. I mean, because _obviously_ guys are always just falling all over themselves for you, and not just because of your winning personality. In fact—"

She was beyond fuming now. The hurt look of a moment ago had more or less been burned off. She took a step forward.

"What? What are you going to do?" I asked mockingly. "Hit me? Are you going to hit me again? Go ahead, we wouldn't want to break precedent."

But she couldn't now that I'd dared her to. Her face was flushed and she gave one shake of her head before resolutely stepping around and then past me, out the door.

I took a deep breath, feeling somewhere between elated and sick. The elated didn't last. It never did. It never lived up to that promise that it would.

I hadn't realized a lot of stuff in that span of time. I hadn't realized that I was sweating, and breathing heavily. I hadn't realized that I was still clutching the camera lens of several minutes back. I hadn't realized how much my chest hurt.

I'd more or less obliterated any line that there'd ever been between me and Sam Puckett. Jumped over it, on top of it, and then nuked it for good measure. But it was over now, so there was no sense in caring. She'd more or less decimated our friendship in under a week. That was impressive, even for her. After everything we'd been through.

I slammed the lens back into place with a snap. All right, she had been trying to apologize. _Trying to apologize._

And suddenly it seemed like such a great idea. To go to the Music Fest with her. But it was too late now. About two thirds of an epic argument too late. I'd gone and sorta ruined it.

Suddenly I wasn't sorry anymore, I was angry all over again. I already had a date this weekend, I didn't want to go with Sam.

When I turned, Carly was storming through the studio door, only looking slightly less flushed than Sam had.

"All right, this is enough of this," Carly said.

"What?" I asked, more or less stalling a little as I prepared for what I knew was coming.

"Oh, don't worry, everyone in the entire building knows you two are just the best of friends again." I can't remember seeing Carly this mad, at least not for a long time.

"It's no big deal," I said, some of my anger leaking out again, "We've got it under control." _Just stop trying._

"Uh huh. What's wrong with you? How—" Her voice caught a little. "How could you do that to her? She was practically crying when she came down."

"Crying?" No way. She had to be exaggerating.

That was a semi disturbing image I didn't want to imagine.

"Almost. What did you say to her?"

I frowned. "I thought you and the whole building heard it all."

"We're two floors down." She said in a way that led me to believe that my attempts today at sarcasm were on their way to having two girls wishing they could rip my head off. "I was _exaggerating_!" Now she was yelling.

"Just drop it, okay? We've already been through this. I don't want to talk about it!"

"You know what? Just forget it!"

"Okay!" I shouted.

"Fine, just make everyone miserable and see if I care!"

She left.

"Like you'd notice." I almost wish I'd been able to say that when she was here. But I guess I'm not quite that brave.

I was having such a great day that I immediately ripped up the envelope with the Music Fest tickets inside that Sam had evidently dropped into my mail slot on the way out of the building. But, in order not to break with the rest of the day, I wasn't brave enough to do it until my mom was out of the room.

It also would've been kind of awkward after my mom had peeked inside and taken them to be a thank you for having Sam over when we'd been sick.

--


	8. Chapter 7

"So … you gonna kiss her?"

--Sam Puckett

i'M Sick of Coming Up With Chapter Titles

"So …" I started, almost instantly regretting it.

Amelia looked up from her menu expectantly. We sat there for a few seconds like that, with just the quiet buzz of the restaurant in the background.

I gave a laugh that I didn't have to try too hard to make sound nervous. "I was hoping that you would have something to say."

"Oh," she laughed a little.

My agonizingly well thought out plan for tonight was to play on the whole nervous situation factor, since it was obviously something we both had in common. It was so perfectly simple, but it did require conversation and ironically a little bit of courage. Unfortunately those were two things I seemed to be in short supply of.

But Amelia was a trooper, I had to give her that. "Don't you just hate these kinds of things, when you don't know what to say?" she asked.

"Yeah," I laughed a little along with her, feeling things ease, "The whole awkward silence thing."

"Uh huh," she said, "But you're really good at this. Have you gone on a lot of dates?"

In any other situation it probably would've been a bad question to ask. Probably even worse to try to answer. But it was hard to even recognize that with the way she put it. Crazy.

"Oh, not really," I said, playing it casual and aiming for being vaguely dismissive, not only to impress her but to put some distance between me and the idea of any other girls. For a moment Carly and Sam flashed to mind, interrogating me as they no doubt would on Monday.

Then I remembered no, that wasn't true. They wouldn't.

"I've only dated a couple of girls and … they didn't go very well."

"Really?" She sounded almost surprised, like the thought of me having trouble with girls was almost incomprehensible to her.

Valerie inevitably came to mind, when she had acted like I was an air-conditioned Mayan sun temple or something—all for the roundabout means of using me. I looked at Amelia.

I tried. I really did. But it was hard to imagine her manipulating much of anything when she was smiling like that_._ But who knows. Maybe she was just that great at acting and was using me after all.

Amelia glanced back at me from where she had been looking off to the side. In the process her eyes did that little down—up—down thing that she seemed to do a lot, the one that made me need to squirm.

Maybe I just like being used.

A memory of Sam threatening me with bodily harm unless I made her a ham sandwich came to mind. It was a frequently reoccurring memory, actually. It being a frequently reoccurring event might have something to do with that.

Well, maybe I like being used _most _of the time_._

"I, uh, actually didn't tell the truth when I asked my parents if I could come," Amelia said, sounding conspiratorially, "They have this rule about group dating until I'm sixteen ... which is only a couple months away," she added in a slightly amending voice.

"I'm just glad you said yes," I smiled, "I was kind of afraid you'd think I asked too quickly."

"No," she said quietly, with a little smile as she looked down at the table and rubbed at a spot with a finger, "I didn't think you asked too quickly."

I couldn't help but grin at that. "So your birthday is in two months? What day is it?"

"November eighteenth," she said, "When is yours?"

"February fourth," I rolled my eyes, "It's the worst time to have a birthday."

"Why?"

"I don't know," I said, wishing I'd seen that coming, it being an obvious follow up question and all. "It's in the middle of winter ... after Christmas and New Year's. I guess I just wish I had one in the summer, so I could have a party outside or something."

I don't know if thinking about not thinking about Sam's spring birthday parties actually counted as successfully avoiding the thought.

"But it's near Valentine's Day, isn't it?" Amelia asked. "That must be kind of neat, isn't it?"

I shrugged because I couldn't think of anything to say to that.

Our waitress came up and asked if we were ready to give our orders.

We were and I ordered a pizza stack. Amelia asked if she could have the spaghetti salad special; the waitress couldn't hear her the first time and she had to repeat it.

I fiddled with my napkin, trying not to wonder who didn't get pizza at a pizza place.

I also spent the next five minutes trying to keep my eyes either on her face or on something polite, that wasn't connected to the rest of her.

Our endeavors at meaningful conversation didn't pan out quite so well either. She talked about her little brothers, I obliged with a few tamer facts about my mom. She described her dog and goldfish, I talked a little about the Shays.

It was only about halfway through this stretch that I realized, not for the first time, how much of my life revolved around the Shays and their apartment. It was like more important to me than school with all of its social and educational obligations, more important than home.

I'm pretty sure that Amelia noticed the lapse in my train of conversation.

_I'm not going to think about Carly, or the lack of her, I'm not going to think about Carly—_

I did briefly reminisce on Carly's notable lack of jealousy whenever I dated someone else, however.

Suppressing a sigh, I went about picking another topic out of the list I'd brainstormed. Pets and family had already come up and were more or less out of the question now. Birthdays had been a good one because it had been spontaneous and not planned to death beforehand. It was nice that I'd already gotten to say I was glad she had said yes when I'd asked her out. And then there was—a lot of other things I couldn't remember right now.

_Great._

Amelia caught me looking at her and kind of smiled before looking away again. I smiled a little too late, then winced—just as she looked back at me.

_Ugh._

"So … your family is from Oklahoma then?"

_Lame Freddie, lame._

But she apparently didn't pick up on the ridiculous amount of lameness in that, or else she was just that good at hiding it. She began sharing just about everything I could possibly ever want to know about her family and Oklahoma.

This was a great thing, because it gave me an excuse to stare at her for however many minutes passed and listen. It was great. And not just because she was so pretty. Somewhere in the middle of her uncle Ned's ranch and the way she scratched her nose in that ... way, I decided that I wouldn't mind falling in love with a girl like this. Actually, I wouldn't mind all that much falling in love with her.

The food arrived and things became easier, as it was always an easy topic to use and maintain throughout the meal. For whatever reason this date was turning out to be the hardest I'd ever attempted. Maybe it was because it mattered so much more than the others. Not that they hadn't mattered, but this was different.

This was—

Amelia's fork slipped and a sauce soaked bit of noodle fell across her cheek and down her shirt and fortunately back to her plate. She was all aflutter with embarrassed words and motions as she took a napkin and wiped at the tomato sauce on her shirt.

I smiled and leaned across the table with a napkin to dab at her cheek. Almost like a movie.

—about Sam. This was about Sam.

At least a bit. At least a little bit.

And when Amelia was looking at me like that, and smiling, or even when she wasn't it kind of hurt to admit that. I was going on this date and trying so hard in the hopes of hurting someone that wasn't even here. That didn't even really know about this.

"Is that all of it?" she asked, wiping at her cheek a little.

But it didn't have to be. I may have gotten into this for the wrong reasons, but that didn't mean I had to leave it like that.

"That's all of it."

--

There were a few things I knew by the closing bits of our date. One, I needed to get in touch with the Surgeon General and let them know that Amelia Hugdahl's smile was addictive. And way too readily available.

Two, this was the best first date I'd ever been on. It didn't really matter anymore what the reasons for getting into it had been.

And three, it was okay sometimes to kiss on a first date.

Accidental really wouldn't be the best word for it, but it hadn't exactly been planned either—fantasizing about it for nearly two hours didn't count.

All I know is that girls have no clue what sort of effect the sight of bare shoulders can have. I'd had just about enough of that all night, and something had been in the works all the way home.

Neither of us really wanted to meet each others' parents yet, despite how fast I seemed to be needing to rush everything, so we walked it. It wasn't very far to her place.

First date, first kiss … we kind of skipped the whole holding hands thing.

It just sort of happened when we stalled in front of her place. It was this kind of mutual feeling of not wanting to end it.

It was half conscious, half unconscious action. Just a brief touch of lips that made everything change. Her eyes so close and different from anything I'd seen before. So trusting.

It made me feel bouncy all over, and conversely content. Like the warm evening and the smells of the leaves changing and the way she tasted. The way she smiled and said a quick good night.

I was sort of all jumbled up on the way back home. It was like there were too many thoughts for my head to fit and they were piling up on top of each other.

I was happy, so happy that everything looked so perfect. Everything felt so perfect. It was a feeling in my stomach that was beyond nice. I hadn't felt like that for a long time. I didn't think about Carly that much, and I tried not to think about Sam at all.

But I did a little. Comparing these two first kisses. How both of them were so different, and what that meant.

--

Mom was asleep on the couch when I got home. The television was muted and the telephone in her hand, the laminated slip of emergency speed dial numbers beside her.

She'd run herself ragged over me being sick this last week, and it was obviously starting to catch up with her.

I stood there in the living room for a long minute, not really looking at her. Not even really thinking about her particularly, but about when everything had changed so much, or even when it had started to change at all.

Sometimes I wish it could be easier than this. Having two parents to come home to that I could calmly and maybe even casually talk about tonight would've been … nice. Maybe a little too idealistic, but I would've settled for even one normal parent.

Mom was of course trying her best, but her best had been all but driving me crazy lately. And it was getting worse. Always worse.

That I could take. I _had_ been taking it for a long time now. But this place where I was, this feeling that even a great date couldn't cover for long, this was new and wasn't something that just felt bad—didn't just feel horrible. It felt inescapable, like it was crazy to think that I could ever get out of it.

A year ago, or maybe even less I would've woken her up. Instead I settled for leaving my jacket on the chair so she wouldn't call the police if she woke up after I went to bed.

--

Everything changed.

And when I mean everything, I don't just mean some vague word that people use all the time to indicate a little more than usual. I mean everything.

I still spent time at Carly's, sometimes even with Sam, but that dwindled significantly even beyond what it had been since the school year had started.

Amelia suddenly occupied this massive fraction of my life, and everything in my schedule had to squeeze and groan to make it fit. But fit it did. I made sure of it.

School routines changed. Where I would go before and after class, even what I did during class wasn't the same. Going home for any notable period of time that I would spend with my mom became what school had been like before. They kind of switched places, I guess. In more ways than one.

"So how was the Music Fest?" I had innocently asked Sam at Carly's. Not immediately after the weekend, of course, but I wasn't able to wait as long as I had planned on to make it sound offhand either.

"Didn't go." She had shrugged her shoulders like it was no big deal.

"What do you mean you didn't go?" Carly had asked, semi horrified.

Her voice had gone low and she had lied about giving them away for some reason. I can't even remember. I actually remember the way she'd said it as she slowly sucked on her Popsicle more than what she had actually said.

That memory seemed like it had happened a long time ago well before the week was up. I was just beginning to appreciate that fact by the time the week was completely gone, and then another.

It was this blur of motion and feelings and little glances and fake words when I had to, and honesty when I wanted to. "Wanted to" being Amelia, "had to" being Sam.

And then there was Carly. Or rather there wasn't. Or there was and there wasn't. I haven't made up my mind yet. It was weird how intrusive and ... _present_ she could be for brief spurts of time. And then gone for the rest. She sorta played along with me and Sam that nothing was wrong. That we were all chummy, or maybe Carly had indeed given up on making things right again. But she was Carly, so that wasn't entirely possible.

I think it was somewhere around two more times that she "confronted" me when we were alone, about me and that other girl that hung around her place a lot. But she didn't press too hard. Maybe she actually began to swallow my completely ludicrous assurances that everything was fine. And hey, I've got to hand it to Sam, she's great at acting when she tries. Maybe we were actually making it look real. But then again, it could've just been the battery of tests that conveniently hit Carly soon afterwards.

At least we were genuinely getting along. Me and Carly that is. I think a sustained period of hostility with her would be enough to do me in.

Then there was Sam herself. We talked but didn't say anything. Which is a lot harder than it sounds, believe me. Especially when you get angry every time you see this person. Like seriously angry. It makes level headed conversation of any sort difficult, even the stuff we did in our sleep. And the scary thing was I _was _doing it in my sleep.

Sam had touched this thing inside me that wasn't happy about a lot of things, and just wasn't happy in general. And it wasn't going away.

--

I looked around the gym as me and Jared walked out in our Physical Exertion clothes, but there weren't many people out yet. Jared was going on about a problem, or at least the thing that was a problem to him, from computer class. I was only half listening.

I gave him an understanding sound as I stretched my arms and resisted the urge to watch where the girls came out from the locker room. It was actually commendable that I was able to keep myself limited to only the most occasional of peeks. Considering how well—or rather, not well—I had been doing on average for the past couple of weeks, that was quite an accomplishment.

"So ... yeah," Jared said, having apparently come to the conclusion of his dilemma. "Should I do just ... do what you said before for this too?"

"Yeah, they're pretty much the same," I said, forcefully pulling my attention back to him. "Don't worry, I'll be able to show you this afternoon. We can go over both of them."

"Seriously?" He sounded surprised. "You're still able to help me after school?"

"Yeah," I shrugged, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know, it just sounded like you had something going on tonight," he started, looking over his shoulder as the group he usually hung with came laughing into the gym.

"Oh, don't worry about that," I said, realizing what he meant, "It's just the whole girlfriend thing. We might do something later on tonight."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "Because I don't want to be holding up your—"

"Nah, it's okay," I assured him, "So I'll meet you in the library quarter after three?"

"Yeah, see you there," Jared smiled as he started walking towards his group, "I really appreciate this, man."

"Sure, no problem," I said distractedly. Distracted because Sam had just come in. Not that I cared—

I jerked my head back. Was that Jason Nitts she was walking with_? Nitts? _And talking with while _smiling_—

Nope. I started walking towards where Jeremy was standing. I didn't care. She could talk _and_ smile with all the delinquents she wanted to. "Delinquents" being a generous term.

I remember what that was like. Being able to talk to her before and after gym.

But this was so much better now. In fact I preferred this so much more that—

I reached Jeremy and made desperate idle chatter with him. Not that he minded, but I felt kind of stupid about the desperate part. Still, it was necessary.

Our gym teacher, Ms. Oslay, entered and we all made herd motions towards producing a line. She began to prattle on about general gymnasium etiquette and protocol, like she always did. Jeremy and I ended up roughly in the middle of the line against the wall, and our conversation sort of drifted in and out of focus as Ms. Oslay stalked up and down the line.

Our conversation sort of died altogether when Sam abruptly appeared in front of me on one of Ms. Oslay's trips to the opposite end. I was only given a moment's surprise before she was shoving into me.

"Get away," I muttered at her, remarkably sounding much less confused than I was.

"Move it," Sam said in a bossy voice as she wedged herself between me and the girl that had been to my left in line.

Ms. Oslay came back in front of us and paused with a questioning expression at where Sam was just finishing inserting herself. I crossed my arms and tried to scoot to the right, despite have the relative equivalent of negative space and despite having to contend with mucus showers as my attempt set Jeremy off sneezing. But it was worth it.

"... And there will be no line budging—" Ms. Oslay continued from the pause in her monologue of how class would proceed.

I don't know how that bland smile Sam was giving Ms. Oslay didn't immediately associate in her mind with criminal. Actually, all jokes aside, odds were that there had to be some sort of criminal photo of Sam out there with that sort of smile ...

"You smell like freak," she muttered when Ms. Oslay proceeded down the line.

"You smell like you," I shot back.

"Aw, look who can put together words that make sense," she answered.

I cut off what I was going to say about what smelling like her directly entailed because yes, it did make sense in the form of an insult when the punch line was included, but then I remembered that I didn't care. And it didn't really make for the best conversation in public anyway. So I cut to the chase.

"What're you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" Sam asked, like I was all perfectly cute and idiotic for not knowing.

"I don't know," I answered, resisting more urges involving her than I could almost handle, "Why don't you tell me?"

"It's like this whiz pants," she started, "I get the impression that you don't want to be on my team today—again—"

"Oh, really?" I asked, probably overdoing the sarcasm a bit. But it was necessary.

"And I sure don't want to be on your team," Sam continued like I hadn't spoken, "Because the only thing you fail at more than life is gym class. And since we're playing dodgeball today—"

"You don't know that—" I started, before really thinking if it was possible that she did know. But when I did I knew that she couldn't.

"And today we're going to play dodge-ball—" A piece of Ms. Oslay's monologue wafted down to us like so much cruel and uncooperating reality.

"And since we're playing dodgeball today," Sam repeated, not quite mockingly, "That means we're not going to count off for teams by groups of three like we normally would. We'll be counting off every other person. So that means having to stand—" she adjusted herself uncomfortably, "—Against you for a few minutes will let me be able to throw things at you for the rest of the period. Do you want me to repeat it or should I draw some pictures?"

She was suddenly looking up at me, all in the mistaken pursuit of appearing challenging. And in order to be observing this I had to be looking back down at her. At the same time.

Maybe a month or more ago I would've went after that line of derogatory reasoning, tried to reassert my intelligence, which always seemed to be in short esteem, among other things, when she was talking to me. But it wasn't a month ago, and I didn't care enough. I really didn't want to be talking to her, and I _really _didn't want to be looking at her. I already had enough classes with her where even relocating to the opposite side of the classroom couldn't prevent all visual contact, accidental or otherwise.

So I looked away as relatively soon as possible, and she didn't say anything else as Ms. Oslay began to wind down.

Did I mention that I was jammed in a cramped line right next to her?

I was definitely getting more than my fill of just what her smelling like her meant.

I found myself staring at the hair that happened to be resting on her shoulder, mostly because I could. It wasn't all that hard either when it was literally within inches of my chin. She was staring at the ground, being more than moderately successful at putting out an annoyed and impatient vibe.

Did I mention that there was this unhappy thing inside me that didn't care all that much for her? I think it also was all relative to proximity, because it really wasn't happy at the moment.

"All right, number off, groups of three." Ms. Oslay waved at one end of the line to begin.

I almost fell out of the line as I leaned out to confirm that it was indeed occurring. Geez, after that perfectly orderly speech of Sam's, I had actually believed her.

Sam swore as the count did in fact proceed contrary to everything that was beautiful and pure in the universe.

"Yeah, great theory," I growled as the count began making its way towards us, "You should get it published."

She briefly glared at me, but didn't say anything.

The count reached us and we sang out cruel fate in monotone voices. Jeremy gave us what might have been a concerned, or maybe a fearful look before he ran off with the other group.

Sam immediately shot off for the opposite side of our end of the court. That shouldn't have made me angry. It shouldn't have.

So the rest of the period proceeded, with much displacement of rubber, of victory and defeat. And her doing everything within her considerable power to make it absolutely miserable for me.

She actually only hit me once with a dodgeball. But it was done so convincingly and with such perfect timing that Ms. Oslay caught it from one of her glances up from her fashion magazine to call me out. I managed to cut off my impassioned protests that Sam was on my team early enough to avoid too much humiliation. As in not _quite_ the maximum of the considerable amount possible.

There were of course an incomprehensible array of other, smaller, darting things that she did. Manipulate situations unfavorably, grab up any loose balls before I could, exist ...

It really didn't help either that I would probably never be anything approaching good when it came to physical activities like this.

The fact that I had to claim to be attracted to her in any degree at any point in time was getting on my nerves. Everything felt like it was burning. I guess it might've showed a little.

"What's wrong?" Amelia asked in the hall afterwards. She jumped a little when I half slammed my locker door shut.

"Nothing," was my curt and required response.

She didn't exactly look like she wanted to pursue the matter, at least directly.

"So I was thinking of maybe stopping at Groovy Smoothies after school, you want to come?" she asked as though that was something rare enough to require asking me beforehand.

"No, I think I'll just head home tonight," I said distractedly as I ran a hand through my hair, really only hearing the meager gist of what she was saying, "I've got some homework to do and I'll be helping someone for a little bit right after school."

"What's wrong?" she asked again, this time in a way that quietly asserted that she wasn't going to drop this.

"I had a rough gym class," I forced out the reply. The act of understatement is an art.

"Was it those boys?" she asked carefully.

"No, it was Sam," I said, bumping my back against the lockers, "But it's no big deal."

She didn't voice what exactly her unconvinced look thought of that. And I guess I was sort of too wired to pass it off as no big deal. It was all that angry adrenaline that I hadn't gotten rid of yet.

"Well, what happened?" she pressed.

"Nothing, she's just purposely driving me crazy," I took her arm and pulled her along, hoping that motion might help change the subject, "That's all. I don't really want to talk about it."

"How come you don't seem to spend that much time with her?" Amelia persisted, obviously presently not of the mind to be deterred. "I know you've said that Carly is really busy, but what about her? Does she have a lot of school work, too?"

I kind of laughed at that. She, of course not being all that acquainted with Sam, didn't quite know what to make of that and she dragged us to a halt and put her cool hand on my cheek, her eyes all full of questions.

Everything that didn't really matter slipped away. Sam, angry adrenaline, worry of any kind, and the motion around us slowed until it wasn't an angry mess anymore.

"So, you won't be able to get a smoothie tonight?" she asked after I took her hands in mine and dropped them to our sides.

I squeezed them a little and managed a smile. "No, I think I should be able to make it. I could really go for one about now."


	9. Chapter 8

"So, I still like to party."

--Sam Puckett

i'M Sick of Falling Behind

It's fascinating how a person is known to you in stages, layers. The more I knew Amelia, the less I found that I could honestly say I disliked. I wish I could've been able to say that I didn't want to find anything.

Amelia leaned over the library table to see what I had written, but I pulled it away a little bit and tightened my arm around it. She smiled at me as she tried to see around me.

"Come on," she said, faking a petulant tone as she pushed at my arm, "Let me see."

"No," I drawled.

"Fine." She scooted back in her chair and straightened up in a dignified sort of manner. "I'll just do it by myself."

"Fine," I murmured, taking a serious look back at the chemistry problem in question.

"Can I guess?" I heard her ask.

"Mm." My own attempt at guessing wasn't going so well.

"Is it above sixteen?"

"Maybe," I replied, trying not to sound too uncertain.

"Is it below twenty?" she asked, and I felt her lean against me.

I turned my head to find that she was exceptionally close, her eyes looking up into mine, all playful and questioning.

"Maybe," I murmured as I tilted my lips down after hers.

"Maybe?" she asked with a smile as she scooted away just ahead of my pursuit, her eyes dancing.

"Maybe," I said a little bit more forcefully. I chased her as she leaned back into chair, but I quickly came to the edge of my range. The frustrated look followed.

"Maybe …" Amelia started slowly, "You're not sure and just are afraid to admit it …"

"Maybe," I admitted as I shifted my arms on the table in preparation for further pursuit.

"Maybe?" she laughed a little and relented, leaning in enough that I didn't have to get out of my seat.

"So do you want some help after all?" she asked after everything stopped swimming.

"I suppose so," I said with some playful rue, which was the best I could manage because my head was still swimming a bit.

Amelia took her seat and scooted it over closer to mine and pulled her work back to where it had been before, before I had told her that I wasn't having trouble with this problem and that yes, I could do it on my own.

But now that I had met my hourly quota on lip contact and she was close again, even closer than when we had first started, it became next to impossible to even imagine focusing on homework.

"All right, so let's start back at the beginning," Amelia began, all business again. It amazed me how she was able to do that, be so affected by my kisses, and vice versa obviously, and then go on as if nothing had happened. True, it amazed me how I had to practically pursue her in all things kiss related, as if she was afraid of what I would think if she ever let on that she wanted it just as badly. It kind of made me feel good and all in control, but sometimes it would nice if—

"So that's what you got here, right?" she looked up at me.

I blinked. "Sorry? … I wasn't paying attention."

She looked back down at my paper, "But isn't this what you got after—"

I took her hand and she stopped and looked at me. "What do you say we take a break for a minute?" I asked.

She squeezed my hand and pulled her feet up on her chair. "Well, okay. What do you want to do?"

I laid my head down on my science book and smiled a little bit at that, but not nearly as much as the thought of me telling her exactly what I wanted to do, or rather continue, would've made me. As it was, I had enough trouble not kissing her for more than a solid minute and feeling guilty about it somehow.

"I don't know." I rubbed at her hand with my thumb. "Just not schoolwork."

She smiled quietly as she leaned over the table in front of me, putting a hand up to touch my cheek. "I wish I had more classes with you, you're so smart."

"I'm not _that _smart," I said as I stared into her eyes. She was carefully looking at the part of my face that she was rubbing. It was something special whenever she dared a little and looked back at me.

But at the thought of classes, my mind involuntarily flickered to that C I was wallowing in for shop class. And thinking of shop made me involuntarily think of—

"Can I ask you a question?" Amelia asked softly.

"Sure," I said, my insides cringing a bit at that tone.

"How come you never sit with Sam in science?" She looked up—I looked up. "Is it because of me?"

I fought the urge to get up, to make it obvious. "No, it's not because of you."

"But why then?"

I sighed a little. "We haven't been getting along too well—at all, really, lately."

"Why?"

_Ugh._ "We had a little fight, okay? I don't really want to talk about it." _Please just say okay and leave it—_

"I have another class with her," Amelia said.

"Really?" I asked, pretending that I cared. "Which one?"

"Economics," she said, growing quiet again as she traced a pattern of something along my cheek with her finger.

I had the growing sensation that she was working up to something.

"Actually," she said with an uncertain smile, "I have some work I have to do with her in a couple of weeks."

Well, at least I didn't have to pretend to care anymore. Even the thought of Amelia and Sam talking about safe stuff like schoolwork was enough to make my insides want to crumple up and implode.

"What sort of work?" I asked as I sat up a little.

"Oh, nothing much." She looked like she was resisting the urge to sit up along with me. "Just a presentation that we have to do in front of the class—"

"Great," I muttered as I sat up the rest of the way.

"What?" she asked as she relented and followed me.

To be honest I was mostly thinking of Amelia's grade, at least for the moment. A person didn't have to be best friends with Sam to know how much effort she put forth in group work, of any kind.

"What are the odds that you'd get paired with her?" I asked sarcastically.

She shrugged, looking like she felt I was asking her personally and not fate or something else about as humorless. "It's a small class and we have to do three of these over the semester … It's just that this one will be my first and I'm kind of worried. I hate talking in front of people, I don't know why we have to do it for an economics class—" she paused looking guilty. As was customary.

"That part will be okay," I reassured her as I took her hand, "Sam doesn't have a problem talking in front of people. You'll just have to do … just about everything else."

She looked at me all hopeful. Great.

"Will you help me?" She quickly pressed on at what my face looked like. "I mean not with all of it, just to help me make sure I don't do something really wrong or—"

"Of course I'll help." I said it because I had to, because I was going to. I dreaded it because Sam was involved. "Have you … talked to Sam about it yet?"

"Just a little bit," Amelia's face took on a different expression, "I told her that we could meet at my house next week to get started on it. She said, 'Yeah, whatever.' Or something like that."

It was a bittersweet smile that I couldn't help. Because she made her voice sound so much like Sam, maybe unconsciously. When was the last time I had talked to Sam? Our last episode of iCarly? If you could even call that talking.

"But you will?" she asked. "You'll help me … us? Just a little bit?"

I leaned my head back onto my science book. "Of course I will."

She looked so happy, like she could even conceive of me ever refusing to help her. Usually that was more than adequate for me, but my mind had enough other disturbing things to juggle that it was difficult. Disturbing things being a vague term for—

But then she did the unexpected and completely incredible. She rubbed my hair as she leaned in and quickly kissed me. As in _she _kissed _me_. As in—yeah.

And then it was hard to think about Sam or much of anything else.

She leaned down on the table alongside me and stroked my hair. "Do you want to get back to work?" she asked.

"Sure," I responded. But she smiled, and then I did too as neither of us made any move.

There was a minute or so silence and her hands resting on me. "You want to hear a joke that I heard my little brother say?" she asked.

"Sure," I said as she adjusted her face.

"Um ... what happened when the cat swallowed a ball of wool?"

I gave an appropriate pause. "What?"

"She had mittens."

I smiled.

"I don't think that's how it goes. I'm not very good at telling them, it was so much funnier when he said it." There was another moment of silence. "Do you want to hear another one?"

--

It was around third period when I came around the corner to my locker, preoccupied, but not too preoccupied to notice a notable absence of Amelia. She usually beat me here at this time of day. I put my stuff away and looked over towards her locker—and froze.

She wasn't at her locker, but Sam's. While Sam was there. And it looked suspiciously like they were in the midst of conversing, exchanging words, chewing the fat, breaking several laws that made up the foundation of my present happiness that you just _didn't_ break. With Sam actually participating. Though the fact that Sam was there at all was more than enough.

I stepped out into the hallway's tide and navigated around the people in a broad arc, trying to decide just from which end I wanted to come up on ... to listen in on. Stepping in and joining the conversation was entirely out of the question, but I suppose listening in should've been too. In the end I decided that I really didn't want Amelia to know of this, and I of course didn't care what Sam thought.

So I approached from behind Amelia, fervently hammering out what I was going to do if, and probably when, Sam caught sight of me and invariably proceeded to tell Amelia.

They were standing there, Sam almost casually as she listened, and Amelia nervously, but doing a fair job of hiding it. She periodically glanced over towards my locker, but apparently thought that I had gone off somewhere else.

I was beginning to think that I was actually doing a remarkable job of being stealthy in my approach, as Sam hadn't caught sight of me yet—when she did.

_Man._

She almost looked surprised for a moment, but then looked back to Amelia and said something. I cringed, waiting for Amelia to turn around—but she didn't.

So I continued, figuring that it would be any second now, any second ...

I got close enough to begin to get the words I'd almost been able to catch before.

"—Most times he's fine, but then others ... he seems like he's really upset about something. Do you know what I mean?" Amelia was saying.

I felt like slamming my head inside the nearest locker, to put it nicely. She was talking about me. To Sam. What did she think she was _doing_?

But I knew exactly what she was doing, as I began to supremely regret ever letting on anything about the status of my "friendship" with Sam.

"Yeah, he's been like that a lot lately," Sam said neutrally, almost succeeding in not glancing at me.

"I ... he's been really bothered by how ... things are going between you." Amelia didn't sound all that confident about where she was going. Not that she had any beginning of any inkling of any portion of any ... simply put, she didn't know where she was going.

"Has he?" Sam asked, not sounding all that convinced.

The first bell rang.

"Well, I've got to get class," Amelia said hurriedly, "But I'll see you next period ..."

"Yup, can't wait," Sam forced a tight smile as Amelia headed away from me without looking back. She then turned her full attention on me, and I could see her mentally weighing whether she could get away with avoiding me. But for whatever reason she decided against that.

"Hey," she said, pretending to sound surprised as she walked by me, not pretending to hide that she was hoping I wouldn't follow.

I fell into step with her.

"Have a nice little chat?" I asked, kinda sharply.

"I can't control what your girlfriend wants to talk to me about, Freddie," she answered tiredly.

"What, do I think I wouldn't like what she would have to talk to you about?" I asked.

"Then why didn't you come up and join in?" she pointedly pointed out.

I felt some of my anger fade at that. She hadn't let Amelia know I was there after all, and I _was_ feeling kinda grateful.

There were several steps of silence and I decided that I didn't want to argue with her about this. Actually, there was a strong combination of what Sam had just done and what Amelia had just done, horribly misguided yet enormously sweet as it was, that was making me feel almost happy.

Sam might have seen some of this on my face as we walked along. She frowned and glanced behind us. "What do you want?"

I looked over at her, and found my answer. I wanted Amelia to be happy. And I didn't care enough about all this Sam fiasco to mess with that.

"So what do you think of her?" I asked, realizing that I actually did care what she thought about Amelia. Though that extended to everyone really.

"Oh," she looked at me, and stolidly back to the ground, probably not carefully choosing her words for my sake, "She's a nice ... girl ..."

That's not what I had wanted to hear. "Oh. So you hate her. Big surprise."

"I don't hate her—I wish I did, but I don't." Sam said, looking at me hard enough to show that she was serious, and differently enough that—

"Then what's your problem?" I demanded.

"I don't have a problem. Who said anything about a problem? I couldn't be more problem free." We both stopped. "You're the one with the problem."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?" I asked, half afraid that she was going to say something about—what? I don't know what.

"Your class is that way," she pointed back the way we'd come and then smirked as the bell rang, "Remember?"

_Crap._

Then she was walking away again.

And in the midst of my sprinting and retracing I declared some sort of unspoken truce with her. Conditional, but serious. For Amelia. And for Sam I guess, a little. I didn't really want to fight—or try to hurt her anymore. She _hadn't_ told Amelia I had been standing there after all, but—

I came within sight of the closed door to my class just as I really began to pant and my shirt began to really stick to me.

—she could've told me I was walking in the wrong direction.

--

The beginning of week three marked the big day, the in-home date that was inevitable, though not necessarily inevitable _this_ soon. It happened more because I couldn't keep avoiding my mom like this—and because I was mildly rushing everything. At this rate I figured we'd be married before Christmas. With a picket fence and a dog by the time we graduated, ulcers and dentures by twenty-five, and eulogies by—

"I'm not really nervous," Amelia said and looked over—or rather up at me from my arm, "It's weird."

"You aren't?" I asked. "Maybe I'm just nervous enough for the both of us."

She laughed because she was a nice girl. I winced because I'd actually said that.

"Oh, so that's Carly's apartment?" she asked as we came to my hallway.

"Yup. That's it."

"Do you think we should say hello?"

"Oh—no," I said, a little surprised, "She's either busy with homework or not even home yet."

"She must be really smart if she's able to juggle all those classes and iCarly," Amelia said as we turned to my door again and kind of just stood there.

"Uh huh," I replied absently, "So ... you ready?"

"Oh, come on," she laughed a little and squeezed my arm, "It won't be that bad."

I knocked on the door, which was kind of weird because it was like ... mine, and the barest of hesitations followed before my mom opened the door. I was impressed that she had restrained herself from being overt about waiting at the peep hole—even though I'd insisted on her not doing that.

Tonight was going to be perfect. My itinerary said so.

"Oh, come in, come in. You must be Amelia." My mom did the customary mother meets proper girlfriend etiquette.

I took Amelia's jacket but didn't move to put it away until my mom had disengaged herself Amelia.

"Hello, Mrs. Benson," Amelia said, all cheeks and beams, "It's so nice of you to invite me to supper tonight."

I was smiling until I happened to glance back over my shoulder and see the face that my mother was giving to that. Not that it was all that noticeable—I prayed to God that Amelia didn't see it—but it was noticeable enough to me. Especially in contrast to the excessive expression that she _should_ be wearing.

But it was only a momentary slip as my mom seemed to forcibly eject whatever less than perfect thought was running through her head. She put her arm around Amelia and guided her towards the kitchen.

"And I hope so too—" my mom said in answer to Amelia as she continued talking, "But we're going to have all sorts of fun tonight cooking this lasagna—it's one of my grandmother's special recipes. Freddie told me that it's your favorite dish and—"

The kitchen door swung behind them.

I stood there for a moment, realizing just how little control my itinerary exerted over reality.

--

They of course chatted like old friends, like we were already married and Amelia was a Benson. Like the three and a half dozen kids were just in the next room but happened to be keeping quiet. But even at the best of it Amelia seemed to be having a much better time than mother was.

The whole cooking supper together thing turned out to be a great idea. It gave all three of us something to do and talk about, and it _was_ kinda fun. But mother's little glances of various uncertainties persisted, much to my ire. And confusion.

What was wrong? This was like perfect—beyond perfect. I was having absurd amounts of difficulty trying to come up with anything, anything at all that my mother wouldn't like about Amelia, or even find disinteresting. And if this whole cooking supper thing wasn't so perfectly distracting, I would've been getting kind of angry.

"Mom! What's wrong?" Okay, maybe I was kind of angry anyway.

My mom gave me a cornered wildebeest look as she kindly shouted behind her at Amelia that the serving fork she was using was especially pointy. Then the kitchen door swung shut behind her, leaving just me finishing on setting out the table and her bringing one of the dishes out for a moment—which left plenty of space for interrogation.

"What ever do you mean, Freddie?" she made an exaggerated look of confusion as she set the dish down, all the while not daring to look at me.

I sighed and leaned down against one of the chairs. "What do you think of her?"

"Oh ... you mean Amelia?" The exaggerated look of innocence again.

I gave her a look.

"She's a lovely girl," she said, earnest to show me that she was sincere, "And she seems really ... nice and—nice." Her voice went from searching for words to keeping the description pleasant, to realizing that nice was all it took. Should take.

"So what's the problem?" I asked her, a little demandingly.

"I don't know." A genuine expression of confusion. "I—it just doesn't seem like she's good for you—"

"Mom," I nearly groaned.

"You know I have a thing about knowing that sort of—" my mom began to assert.

"Mrs. Benson?" Amelia called from the next room over.

That was a good thing, because it was awkward listening to mom say that she had any sort of thing about relationships.

"Has Carly come around yet?" my mother asked hopefully as she started back for the kitchen.

"Mom!" Yeah. Wow.

"I mean—" mom said, maybe realizing a small fraction of how that sounded, maybe, "Or maybe—"

But whatever else passed as "maybe" wasn't given a chance as she was through the door.

It was just completely unbelievable. Yeah, I got the impression that she was happy for me and everything, and things had been going better between us in the past couple weeks than they had been for a quite a while, but still ...

What did she want from me?

"_Has Carly come around yet_?" I mimicked as I sank down into my chair.

No, she hasn't. And she likely never would. Sadly.

And that definitely constituted a quick way to shoot my already downed mood into something approaching beat poet levels. The question of whether I'd drop everything if Carly did suddenly come around was a depressing one. Whether I'd drop everyone.

Amelia definitely picked up that something was wrong, or at least less than good.

There were sides to her that just amazed me. Like what she was able to do with that dinner.

There were the usual smiles, the cute little jokes, and the demeanor she was able to spontaneously generate, but there was a lot more to it. It was indescribable. And by the end of the meal I was feeling better. A lot better. The Carly Question and my mother dilemma seemed so far away.

"I don't know, I don't think she liked me very much," Amelia was whispering as she half leaned through the door on her way out.

"Nah, she loved you," I said reassuringly, and it actually sounded good. I wish I was able to be as honest as she was.

"Well," she looked down a little, trying not to look as reassured as she actually was, "I was just hoping it would go better ... but maybe I was just expecting things to be too perfect."

I smiled at that. Leaning in, I quickly kissed her before she could think to be afraid if my mother was watching. A little bit of color crept into her face as she looked over my shoulder, but she merely smiled and quietly shut the door behind her.

It wasn't all that late in the evening, so everything kind of ground to a halt. My mom preoccupied the greatest bits of her left over tizzying with cleaning up, but she seemed to be caught between being over joyous for me, and whatever accompanied the feeling that I wasn't dating "the right girl."

I would've never in a million years expected my mom to have anything but the highest ... well, everything for Amelia. She like fit my mom's guidebook from the foreword to the epilogue. And right on through the sequel.

And that left me feeling a lot like nothing, and especially like doing nothing.

Somewhere between sitting on the sofa trying to replay the evening for the eleventh time and deciding I didn't really want to go to bed, the idea of seeing what Carly was doing became appealing.

"It's open!" I heard Spencer shout from inside when I knocked on their door.

"Hey," I put my hand up unenthusiastically as I walked into the living room.

"Oh, hey, Freddo," Spencer came in from the kitchen, a bowl of popcorn in his hands and the phone between his shoulder and ear, "Haven't seen you—wait, hold on—" He held up his hand at me. "No—I would LIKE—CUSTOMER—SERVICE—" he enunciated in a loud voice.

"Having any luck?" Carly asked as she came down the stairs "—Oh, hey!—Freddie. How's it going?"

"Great," I said in a mostly unenthused voice as I plopped down in one of their chairs.

Carly nodded a little as she took the bowl of popcorn from Spencer's hands and stopped a little bit. "Well, that's good," she said in an odd voice as she made jerky attempts towards the stairs.

"She's here, isn't she?" I asked.

"Wait—" Spencer held up his finger at us, "Hello? No ... no, I can't understand you ... because you're talking in a dialect of English I _do not_ understand." He put his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered "India" to us.

Carly looked down at me as she stopped at the first landing. "Do you want to come up? We're watching a movie."

"Nah," I shook my head a little as I fiddled with my shirt, "I can't stay very long anyway."

"Oh, all right." She made that face and walked out of sight.

Spencer gave me a pair of raised eyebrows before his expression snapped back to his conversation. "That's right—my credit card number is being used to purchase HD TVs. Yes, _very expensive_ TVs that I didn't order ... what's that?" He frowned a little. "Uh, I think the bill said some town in Mexico, hold on, it's right here—Los Nohos—no, that's the town where they're being ordered, not—No! I don't want to order anything from that town, I want to—"

I sighed and stood up. I glanced over at the clock. Great. It was only eight thirty.

How I ever made it up those stairs I'll never know.

"Oh." Carly said it like she hadn't expected me to come up. Not that I blamed her, but—

"Hey." I held up my hand up again as I took only as many steps into the studio as would classify me as being in the room.

Sam looked over at me in surprise. The eye roll thing acknowledging my presence, which she'd mastered to all new levels in the past three weeks, quickly followed. I didn't miss that Carly noted it as well.

"You hungry?" Carly asked as a couple seconds passed with just the sound from the television.

"No, he's not," Sam said without looking away from the movie. She went on rhythmically at the popcorn bowl in front of her, a fistful at a time.

"Sam," Carly said, teetering enough between good natured and indignation that I thought that maybe for a second she forgot the extent to how things were.

"No, that's all right," I said hastily, trying not to sound awkward, "I'm not really hungry ... I just ate." This is the part where I seriously contemplate telling them that I'd just come up here to say hi and then leave. But then I reasoned with myself that it couldn't get much more awkward than this, right?

Carly clearly wasn't playing by the game plan. "So, whatcha been up to tonight?"

This is the part where I contemplate lying. "Me? Tonight ...?"

Even Sam had to look up and give me a pair of eyebrows at that.

"I, uh," was stuttering, "Heh. I was actually on a date ... with, uh, Amelia."

"Oh." When I looked back at her, Carly looked like she regretted asking. Not that I had been staring at Sam's reaction—as utterly anti-climatic as it was, might I neutrally comment. But Carly _should_ be sorry for asking, and not looking like she felt the need to follow up according to protocol and ask how it went. She wouldn't do that. Even though she didn't (to the best of my knowledge) know of the complete embarrassment hanging between me and Sam about this whole kiss thing, surely she wouldn't.

For a moment it looked like she was, and I panicked.

"So what are you guys watching?" I took another couple steps inside, for the first time looking at what they had running on the view screen. I instantly filed it under "unwatchable chick flick," but I was practiced enough that I didn't let that show.

"The Proposal," Carly answered, then leaned her head back and looked at me, "So ... you in or you out?"

I must've been more distracted than I thought, between pretending I wasn't watching Sam while doing my best to watch Sam and whatnot. Because I didn't even catch Carly's little pun on the title, so my laugh was late and guilty. And stupid.

"I ..." I held up my hand and made some weird gesture. "Guess I'm in."

It wasn't that the thought of being near Sam, or especially how appealing the movie sounded, was enough to outweigh my dread of going home. I guess it was just the thought of passing this up, being how rarely we got together these days outside of iCarly. Even if Sam was part of the deal.

But in traversing the distance towards them, I realized that the room's vacant bean bag was immediately to Sam's left. My step stuttered a little, but I took a little courage that Sam wasn't even looking at me. Carly was sending me a kind of anxious expression that she probably hoped I didn't catch.

Drawing my face in, I did my best impression of a casual walk towards the bean bag, because I wasn't really capable of a casual walk at this point in time. And even though it was entirely out of the question for me to move it, I did end up giving in a bit and pushing it with my foot a ways to give myself some breathing room. When I plopped down onto my stomach, I was all but shocked to find a proffered bowl of popcorn underneath my nose.

I dumbly shook my head mostly because I couldn't think of anything else to do. Sam pulled it back, not having taken her eyes off the screen.

Why did she have to look so ... striking sitting there? In the flashing light from the television. I tried to readjust so I could see Carly better, who obviously fell well within striking as well. Obviously.

"So ..." I said, idly wondering how many sentences I'd already started with that word, "How come you're free tonight? Is it the wardens' night off?" I laughed like it was some casual thing.

"Don't talk to me about school," Carly said with a little shake of her head, not looking away from the screen, "I'm currently in denial that I have a crazy paper due Wednesday."

"Ah." I inclined my head a little. "Are you—"

"Shh!" Sam pointed an annoyed finger at the view screen. "Movie."

I gave her a flat look and she turned back. And though I did make an honest effort to aim my attention in the general direction of the movie, I did notice that she gave me a furtive glance afterwards.

The movie turned out to be ... about as enthralling as I'd expected it to be. It was so great in fact that when Carly got up for another kitchen run I immediately volunteered to tag along.

The look Sam shot me might've looked disappointed in an alternate plane of reality.

But I found myself making mechanical chatter with Carly and not much else. It was kind of annoying how distracting that look of Sam's was, but I couldn't figure out what in the devil it meant. I prayed she wasn't going to try to apologize to me again—ever—but surely she wouldn't.

In fact, it took Spencer to snap me out of my instant expression replaying.

"No, I do—not—want—" Spencer groaned from the couch as he wearily readjusted his grip on the telephone, "Fine. You know what? Fine. I'll take the sombreros, but not a whole crate—Yes." I could practically hear Spencer's teeth grinding together. "Yes. Eight dozen will be fine."

"Eight dozen!" Carly whisper-shouted from the kitchen.

"Hey, Freddie," Spencer whispered at me, "Need a sombrero? No? How about your—Hey, wait a second." Spencer went all serious back to the phone. "Are these the ones with jangly bead things? What's that? _How are you supposed to know?_ Oh, I don't know, aren't you the one _selling them to me_?"

"And how are things with you and Amelia? I still can't believe you're dating her," Carly laughed casually from over her shoulder as she stalked towards Spencer and the phone.

"Oh, uh, fine—" I started.

Carly yanked the phone away from Spencer. "Okay, listen up pal! You're going to get this straightened out, and you're going to straighten it out now! Our credit card is being hijacked to buy ridiculously expensive TV's in Mexico ... do you have any idea how many Pecos that is?" Her voice went all polite and prim again. "Yes, I'll hold."

Before the next bag of popcorn and accompanying layer of chocolate was done, Carly had everything back to normal. It was at times like these that I remembered what it had been like to be indomitably in love with her. Not that I still wasn't, it was just ... not as indomitable as before. I think.

There was that horrible question again of whether I'd drop everything for the chance to date Carly. But it wasn't so bad now. I guess I'd figured out that I wouldn't drop Amelia. The disturbing thing had now become what exactly _would_ I drop? Certainly any other girl besides Amelia—certainly ...

"Come on," Carly took the popcorn out of my hands, knocking me from my disturbing trend of musings. "We're missing the movie. I think I've got everything figured out down here." Carly looked to where Spencer was sitting, looking distinctly humbled, but also a little put out.

"Did you have to cancel _all_ of them?" he asked as we passed.

"Oh—_wait_," Carly said in a not altogether convincing voice when we reached the first landing, "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Oh?" I asked, feeling too tired to muster much beyond that.

"Here, you'd better take this and go on ahead," she must've realized that playing it serious wasn't working so she winked conspiratorially at me, "Don't you go waiting on me."

"Yeah," I stiffly took the popcorn bowl from her, "Thanks."

After she'd left "for the bathroom," I half considered doing just that and waiting until she was "done." But that snapped a little bit at my good old fashioned Benson pride. What was I, a possum? No, I was a man. And nothing this side of Sam Puckett scared me. Sam Puckett herself had a tendency to scare me sometimes, but I wasn't thirteen anymore.

I wasn't afraid anymore.

"Sweet and fatty, just how you like it," I announced as I dropped back down beside Sam with the chocolate popcorn.

She gave me an unamused face. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry anymore."

"Liar."

"Eat up," Sam said as she turned over on her back, "I doubt that chick of yours knows how to cook."

"I doubt you know my _chick_ of mine at all," I answered.

"Oh, we go way back," Sam waved her hand dismissively, "We're in economics together—"

"I know."

"And we just talk about everything," Sam said.

"Liar."  
"In fact," she turned her face back to me, and for a moment it went darker as the movie changed scenes, "We have a project coming up that we have to present together."

"Yeah, I know," I was staring at her, almost boastfully, "You're doing it in two weeks on the principles of supply and demand and you're meeting at her house next Wednesday."

Her face just sort of hung there with a surprised kind of look before she recovered and looked back towards the screen.

And I felt it too. It didn't matter how hard I tried not to, I did. Even in a more innocent way it was that tangible reminder of how much time I was spending outside of her and Carly. That I already knew so much about something of Sam and it wasn't because she'd told me.

And I honestly think I felt horrible.

"What?" Sam snapped and jerked her head back towards me after a minute.

Okay, maybe I had been staring a bit, but it had been completely subconscious.

"Nothing," I muttered.

I thought she would quip then. Or roll her eyes and turn back to the movie. Or something. But she didn't. She just kept looking back at me. And when I remembered that it was possible for me to do any of those things as well—quip, turn away, etc.—I didn't.

I could probably write a thesis paper about how long we were like that, of how many times the thought came to mind that one of us was going to, or at least should turn away.

And I could probably write a novel on how all that felt. Though it wasn't as if it was the same, it changed a bit. But some of it didn't. Which was probably why it took so long to stop.

Everything slipped away, which wasn't an altogether unfamiliar occurrence these days, but the way it did was. It almost made all those other kinds of slippage pale.

I wish I knew what I was trying to tell her. It might've been easy with words, and it probably would've been easier if I just knew—

But I did get a lot of quality time with that spot just below her eye, because I couldn't just stare into her eyes the whole time—or most of the time at least. That might've sent the wrong impression or something.

But when I did it seemed like she was trying to say something too—without talking.

What was I going to do? Kiss her?That might've been, should've been funny anytime else. It was something, really _something_ to realize just how easy it would be to do just that. Just to forget all the lines and words, and things I was never supposed to do and close that negligible space. It would be _possible_. As in within the range of something I could do. It shouldn't be like this, I shouldn't even be thinking of it like this, but it was, and I was. It was _something_ to understand just how easy it had been the first time—the only time. And here I'd wondered so long and hard how I had ever managed to kiss her. If it wasn't impossible for me to do it now, it would be so easy.

There was a definite need for me to do something, because it hurt too much like this. But there was also the definite inability to do anything, hence the inactivity.

It went on for so long in fact that it was jarring when we both heard Carly's footsteps and jerked our heads back to the movie.

"So, what'd I miss?" Carly asked after taking a quick survey of where we were. Not that we hadn't been able to look away before she'd come in.

"Nothing," Sam answered, just like nothing had happened.

"Schizo," I murmured, too low for her to hear. It was amazing, that she could pretend so well, like nothing had happened.

How did she do that?

--

**AN: **Not _entirely_ happy about this one, and I haven't written anything for about a week cue excessive writer's guilt. But now I've got something of a breather from homework. Happy days. And I'd like to thank everyone again who's posted all the crazy awesome reviews.


	10. Chapter 9

"Do you know what it's like to be me and surrounded by giant pots of chili and not allowed to eat it?"

--Sam Puckett

i'M Sick of Them Together

Amelia's youngest brother Marcus answered the door when I knocked.

"Hello, Fred—ward," he said with a giggle.

"Ah, your sister told you what my name is, did she?" I gave his head a distracted rub as I stepped into their living room. "Is your sister upstairs?"

"Uh huh," he said as he followed me in, "She's busy making herself look pretty for you … and said that I was supposed to keep you down here until she comes down …"

"Oh, yeah?" I asked, peeking up the stairway, but then obliging and plopping down on the sofa.

"And there was … something else I was supposed to remember …" Marcus said in a far off voice.

"Was it that you weren't supposed to tell me all that stuff?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah," he tried to cover his guilty smile, "Whoops."

"Don't worry, it'll be our secret," I said as I glanced at the clock. I don't know why I had been so worried about getting here early. It wasn't like Sam averaged anything earlier than five minutes late. Much less to any place where homework would be involved. "So, where are your brothers?"

Marcus climbed up on the sofa next to me as he arranged his face in a more serious way. "Scott isn't going to be here. He's spending the night at Joel's house ... and Dustin is downstairs. Amelia said that he has to clean up the basement because we made a mess … kinda."

"And you got out of it?" I put in an impressed tone.

"I …" he took a deep breath and looked at the floor, "Mom says that I can't go down there cause … cause I was just sick with the chicken pops and it's too cold … my feet get cold."

"Oh," I started.

"—But she says I'll be able to go down pretty soon," he added quickly, like he was worried that I might think less of him if he couldn't, "Yeah … pretty soon."

"So," I put my hands together and looked around. Did I mention I'm not very good around little kids? Inexperience, mostly. "What're we going to do tonight?"

"Well," he got that sneaky look again, "Maybe … maybe we could play Margo Polo …"

I stared at him with what probably resembled a helpless I-don't-know-what-to-do expression. "Margo … Polo? Uh, don't you mean … _Marco_ Polo?"

He grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

Did I mention I'm not very good around little kids? What's the difference between Margo Polo and Marco Polo? And why do I keep going at this point?

"And don't you have to have … be in a pool?" I asked.

This is the part where he gets all quiet and unsure and I don't know, maybe even a little hurt.

"I don't know," Marcus said softly.

"But hey … hey," I said, feeling about as good as if I had just taken up kitten spitting, "We can … still play … do that. I'm sure we don't need a swimming pool. I think …"

"Okay," Marcus looked up at me and I realized that I had been over exaggerating just how much of his personal happiness he staked on the exact parameters of Margo Polo. "Wanna play video games?"

"Oh, yeah!" I jumped on that. "Sure, that would be great. What do you guys have?"

"Well," Marcus hopped down on his knees and moved over to the living room's television stand, as though he was showing off something rare and incredible, "We've got X-box and … and Nintendo …"

He opened the bottom doors to the entertainment stand and looked back at me, but kind of dropped his eyes at the last one. "We should probably … probably play X-box, cause my friends all say Nintendo is for … for nerds."

The kid had no idea how lucky he was that Sam didn't have any younger siblings.

"For nerds? What? No!" I made a face like that was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. "Of course not. They're just saying that to sound cool. Come on, we'll play some Nintendo. What games do you have?"

He smiled at me like I was the coolest guy in the world. In reality I just had an absurd amount of experience in dealing with purported nerdish connotations.

Amelia came around the corner from the stairs. "Oh, you're here already. Great." She gave a distracted smile as Marcus returned to the couch with two controllers.

"What time is Sam supposed to be here?" I asked like I didn't know.

"Oh, any minute ..." She glanced out the front window.

"Is everything okay?" I stood up.

"Just a little nervous ... that's all." She had trouble looking at me. "I was looking through the syllabus again and I'm not sure exactly how to do this."

She didn't know how lucky she was. Especially if that was the worst thing she had to worry about.

"Well, here, let me look at it," I said as I pulled her towards the dining room table where she had all of her school stuff already neatly laid out.

"I'm done!" Dustin called as he pounded up the stairs. "Hey, Freddie's here! Freddie!" He barreled into me like it could be possible that two people thought I was the coolest guy in the world. And after having met me only once, no less.

I awkwardly said hi and kind of patted him.

"Are you sure you put everything away?" Amelia asked in a not so trusting tone.

"Yes, I did everything," Dustin shot back as he quickly disengaged himself from me without another thought and jumped on one of the kitchen chairs, tilting it back.

I looked down at the syllabus Amelia had handed me.

"Everything? Even the toy bins? And don't do that to the chairs."

I looked up and saw Amelia pushing at Dustin to get off the chair.

"No, I'm not doing those! Marcus is the one who messed them all up," Dustin protested.

"Go, it's your turn," Amelia said as she came back around to where I was trying to read.

"But it's not fair, Marcus did it! He always never cleans them!"

"Dustin, mom and dad said that it needed to be cleaned. So please, go do it now," Amelia said impatiently.

"So retarded," Dustin muttered as he turned and stormed back down the stairs.

"Don't use that word!" Amelia shouted after him, but she was already looking back down at the syllabus. "Sorry ... so what do you think?"

"Um, it is kind of vague ..." I said.

"Freddie ..." Marcus said quietly from the sofa.

"Yeah?" I looked up. Marcus was sitting in the corner of the couch with the two controllers. Looking pitiful didn't even begin to describe it.

"Are we going to play?" Marcus asked like he was afraid I had already forgotten his name.

"In a minute, Marcus," Amelia said, "Freddie just needs to help me with this for a second."

"You can start playing, I'll be there in just a sec," I reassured. I looked back down at the syllabus. "So have any other groups gone yet?"

Amelia's response was cut off by the door bell.

"Oh," Amelia quickly made for the door. She opened it. "Oh, hi Sam. I'm really glad you could make it. Please come in."

I abruptly found that I didn't quite know what the appropriate way to stand for this situation was. Folding my arms across my chest would probably convey a little bit more hostility than I wanted. Just standing there seemed kind of stupid, but leaning one arm against the table seemed to scream desperate attempt at casual, so I was left uncertainly fumbling between the two. Though in as cool of a way as possible, might I stress.

In all these things, these parameters where it was firmly established that either Sam or Amelia, and _only_ Sam _or_ Amelia were supposed to be, it was beyond weird whenever they overlapped. They just weren't supposed to do that. That was the whole point to the firmly established parameters being firmly established. Seeing Sam walking into Amelia's living room in her hooded sweat shirt, quietly eying up the place and looking like ... well, her, had to be on my top ten list for weird things to see. And that's saying something. I'm the technical producer on a web show that gets its kicks from weird things to see.

"And Freddie's here already," Amelia was saying.

"Yay," Sam said, "Can't start a party without him."

Amelia of course didn't quite know what to do with that. "Um, and I hope you don't mind the mess. We tried to clean up the best we could, but my parents are out of town for a couple of days and it's been a little crazy ..."

"We had smaghetti for supper," Marcus helpfully supplied.

"Yeah, you've got quite the dump here," Sam said as she looked around with what I could recognize as a fairly impressed air. Sam looked back at Amelia, who looked like she was teetering somewhere between offended and shocked. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding! It was just a joke! You should come over and _try_ to clean up our place sometime." She tried to laugh, and I could tell she was feeling about as out of place as she ever would.

I cleared my throat. "We were just looking at the guidelines for what exactly you guys have to do for the presentation." I raised my eyebrows.

"Oh, don't worry about that," Sam said dismissively as she came around the table.

"You know what to do?" I asked, probably not sounding completely confident in that notion.

"It's always the same stuff for Mr. Crackers, I've had his classes before," Sam came to the pulled out chair I was leaning against and sat down in it.

Feeling slightly outmaneuvered, on multiple fronts, I stepped away from the chair as Sam unzipped her hood and sweatshirt and draped it around behind her.

"Isn't his name Mr. Crainers?" I asked, but it was more to say something as I pulled back than anything else. I looked over at Amelia and saw that she was doing her best to cover giggles. Ha ha, yes, Sam was just so hilarious.

Sam looked up quietly at this and then shrugged. "So, what's the plan?" she asked Amelia.

"I was thinking of maybe doing an illustrated chart," Amelia, mostly recovered, slid into the chair opposite Sam, "Something with graphs that we could use to show how, um, the supply and demand charts change—or maybe something ..."

Sam was nodding. "Lots of people do that, but Mr. Crackers is half deaf anyway, so ..."

I turned and went back over to the couch where Marcus was absorbed with a wide mouth. There was a quiet, not quite guilty giggle from Amelia as Sam went on, but I didn't look to see what she looked like.

--

"No!" I half shouted, relatively calmly. Relatively. "No, no, no, and no! The supply curve would shift left because the companies aren't getting lower taxes, the employers are. So that means—"

"Yes, we've heard what you think it means, and we're not interested in taking a doof's advice who's _not even in the class,_" Sam answered.

I heard a giggle behind me in the living room. I'd wager half my HD camera's that it hadn't come from Marcus.

"Ain't that right," Sam nudged Amelia's shoulder.

"Uh, I don't know," Amelia started, immediately going utterly out of character and leaping to a side, "I guess I can see it both ways ... sorta ... but maybe Sam does have a point about the consumers buying more ..."

Wait. _Wait._ I didn't believe it. She _was _taking a side. And it wasn't mine. Unbelievable.

Well, coming from a logical and completely unbiased standpoint, my side was admittedly becoming the rough equivalent of buying mass Enron shares. I had realized this about three and a half minutes ago, about two minutes after I had gone and voiced my opinion. Sam had called me out on it, and I should've taken a breather there, but she had called me out. What was I supposed to do?

"All right, whatever," I threw my hands up.

Sam made a satisfied sound into the middle of her bite of pizza.

Yeah. Another story. Sam was having pizza after claiming to already have had supper. Not that I didn't believe her, but it was still irking me.

She had nonchalantly commented out loud that she was hungry. Amelia had answered, oh, there's pizza in the freezer, do you want one? I had said no, she doesn't, she said she already ate. Amelia, being the excessively great host that she is and probably would die as, had already been on her way to the kitchen. Sam, being the excessively thoughtful company that she always made for, hadn't stopped her. She'd actually called after Amelia what topping she'd prefer if they had it.

Irk didn't even begin to cover it.

I put my head over onto one of my fists and slowly took a bite of my piece.

Well I wasn't just going to let Sam have all of it, was I? She couldn't—well, yes, she could finish a whole pizza—but I definitely wasn't going to let her do _that_.

"Freddie, are you coming back soon?" Marcus called from the living room, not able to look away from the screen.

"Yeah, I'm kicking his butt," Dustin, equally distracted, said.

"Don't say that," Amelia called.

"That kid reminds me of my cousin," Sam said in a low voice.

I got up and stretched as Amelia said something I didn't catch.

It had been getting dark before I had arrived, but now it was pitch dark outside. Dustin had turned off the living room lights, even after Amelia had told him multiple times not to, which left just the television and the light over the kitchen table. Which was all more than enough to make me feel tired, even without considering how extraordinarily well I'd slept last night.

"So where you guys at?" I asked as I sat down between them and reached for my controller.

"We got way farther than you were," Dustin asserted as he leaned forward with his controller and then rolled around back into the sofa.

Marcus was trying to do about the same thing, and not altogether succeeding.

"Well I would hope so, that was twenty minutes ago." I looked down over at him and heard Marcus giggle. "I bet you can't make it past this stage before I do, and I'm still halfway back."

Dustin spared me a smile. "Oh, you're on! Go, go, go!" he shouted at the TV.

"Come on," Marcus said quietly beside me, and then futilely tried to shake his controller forward—which didn't help.

"Here, wait," I said as I put my controller down and reached over and around to guide his, and, to the best of my efforts, get his guy back onto the course, "Let me show you how to—yeah, that's it. And back up we go ..."

"Look at that," Amelia said in a low tone that wasn't meant for me, but instantly caught my attention, "Don't you think he would make a great dad?"

I did a remarkable job of going on as if I hadn't heard.

I didn't hear Sam say anything.

--

It was over before I really even thought that it could end. And it had went well, really well actually.

I helped the girls put the finishing touches on their model and looked it over for them ... well, for Amelia anyway. I thought it looked good, and Sam made no show to hide that she thought so, but it wasn't quite so easy to convince Amelia.

I'd come down from the boys' upstairs bedroom where we had migrated to play with micro machines and action figures. Those things didn't come to me nearly as easily as video games did, but I had managed.

So overall I thought it had went ... well. But what exactly had I been expecting?

Maybe ... maybe I had been expecting those brief looks on her face. When Sam thought I wasn't watching or couldn't see. When it was just me and Amelia or something just the two of us were doing. Maybe I had even thought about wanting those looks, but I hadn't really, not really. Seeing them had only contributed their fair share to the evening's awkward undertones, and even some guilt.

Amelia and I both politely thanked Sam for coming over, but Marcus had just went to bed and was asking for Amelia about something. So for a moment it was just me leaning against the entryway wall with my arms crossed and Sam bending down to put on her shoes as Dustin pestered her with questions.

"You're really pretty for a girl, you know that?" Dustin said.

My attention had been wandering as I watched her. It kind of stopped then.

"Oh, yeah?" Sam glanced up at me before wryly looking over at Dustin. "You're quite the stud muffin yourself."

"So ..." I could see Dustin trying to process _stud muffin_. "Do you want to go on a date with me?"

Sam raised her eyebrows and paused long enough that I knew she was putting forth an honest effort in trying to figure out how to be nice. "Sorry, kid. I'm kinda already dating someone."

I shifted a little and did my best not to wonder what exactly that meant.

"Oh."

"See ya," Sam said to no one particular as she zipped up her hood and sweatshirt and then looked at me.

"See ya," I said quietly as Dustin gave a deflated sounding bye.

That caused her expression she was sending me to change to something almost resembling unfriendly as she turned and stepped out the door.

For a long second after it had closed I tried to understand what that meant, but then I remembered that this was the girl that I had informed no one liked, could ever like ... among other things. It was getting harder and harder to remember just where things were.

Either it was naturally getting to be his bedtime, or a polite rejection from Sam Puckett was enough to crush his spirits, because it wasn't very long before Dustin pulled himself up the stairs.

There wasn't really much to clean up and Amelia said that I didn't need to stay to help her. As if she thought there was a chance that I actually might not.

"I'm so glad you came," Amelia said as she wiped off the table.

"Really?" I said. "It didn't feel like I had a lot to do."

"Are you kidding?" she asked as she went back into the kitchen and I leaned back against one of the chairs with my arms crossed. "We could've never gotten it all done without your help. And there's _no _way that we would've been able to get anything done with Marcus and Dustin here. Especially Dustin." She made an exaggerated face as she came back into the dining room and looked at me.

I gave a smile as I looked down at the floor. I really wish there was an on and off switch inside my head that pertained to Sam and all things Sam related.

"She really is a nice girl," Amelia said and I looked up, a little surprised. Mostly because she was able to say that phrase that everyone said about _her_ and make it sound different somehow.

"Yeah," I said. When she didn't say anything I looked up again and saw her staring off to the side, looking worried enough that I was about to say something.

"I envy her," Amelia said. I straightened up in surprise and stepped away from the table. "She's not afraid of everything."

"Yes she is," I said forcefully and took a couple of steps towards her, as if that would automatically make her believe me, "She pretends that she isn't, but she is."

Sam had been afraid tonight. At least a little. I could tell.

If Amelia wasn't in front of me looking like that, I might have given more consideration to the amusing idea of Sam ever being afraid of Amelia.

Amelia was quiet for a moment. "And I'm afraid of _everything_."

She looked at me and I tilted my head a little, silently telling her no as I reached out for her hands. I leaned in close to her and smiled reassuringly, and she looked back at me and smiled a little too.

I reached up and put a hand in her hair. It was so practiced and familiar, and she offered no qualms when I leaned down and gently kissed her. But what she had just said didn't go away, and I knew that she was still afraid. I could feel it in the way she responded, with less hesitance, less care than she normally did. And I did my best to make that go away.

Though even as I tried, the thing that she was so afraid of kept racing through my mind, on a continual loop thatI wanted to wish I wanted to stop.But the harder I pressed, the worse it got, the easier it became to substitute all of this familiarity that was leaning so urgently into me, that was so desperate to please.

And with my eyes closed it was so easy.

Then I opened them and saw her eyes again, and felt everything snap back to this girl that was trying so hard. Our desires became the same.

It became hard to think, much less do much of anything else with this going on, but we somehow made it to the table. I lifted her up onto the edge, where I intended to thoroughly kiss her within the bare limits of sensibility, and then ...

I stopped. Because the implications and directions of the situation finally made it past my brain's front desk.

Amelia let out a slight sound at my pause and continued—while we were alone. Together. With Amelia eager to please and trying to prove something.

It wasn't as if I liked to think about it in those terms, but that was what it was.

I tried to continue like we had a moment before, but I found myself fumbling with the routine, albeit the elevated and more vigorous routine.

My pulse was everywhere and begging to be let out. It was making it so hard to think with the direction and possibilities and ... everything _shouting_.

I saw that we were on a brink. And I'm pretty sure Amelia saw it too when her endeavors paused a little, maybe at feeling how much my hands were shaking around her waist.

Alone, as alone as we'd ever be in a house with parents and three younger brothers.

But she didn't stop. _She wasn't stopping._

And I knew she wasn't going to. When I slipped my hand underneath her shirt, along her lower back I felt that she wasn't going to stop if I didn't want to.

I had been pressing up against her fairly recklessly up until this point, but stuff hit their maximum and I awkwardly pulled back a little until there was at least a little safe distance. So I could think, only think.

But how was I supposed to do that when I was kissing her? Especially when I was kissing her in this place?

Everything ached so badly. Missing out would be the understatement of the year if I messed this up now. And nothing that claimed to be a part of me wanted to miss out.

I was kissing down her cheek, then her jaw, then her neck as I tried to untangle myself from those pair of thought-obliterating lips in this whole trying-to-think thing. And it was like gravity itself was leading me down, as Amelia made little noises and began leaning into me and offering a whole new variety of angles.

And it was the hot skin of her neck, and the heat everywhere else, and her hair and smell in my face. And it was—

Wavy or straight. It didn't matter. And lighter, so much lighter.

_No!_ I thought furiously as I involuntarily jerked away from Amelia's hair.

She looked up just before she was following me with her hands, and then her lips found mine again.

I was not going to do this with Sam in any quadrant of my brain.

But when had I decided that I was going to do this?

My motions slowed.

The plan, the plan, how did this fit into the plan?

_What plan? When was there a plan?_

But this hitherto uncontemplated plan was clearly against proceeding any further.

_What do I care? She's the one who said she's dating someone._

But ... but ...

There was also that whole moral thing that would be oh so easy to forget ... for a while. I practically already had. Along with all those other sincere good reasons not to ... which were hard to recall at this point and time, but that was understandable.

Though it was exceptionally easier to remember when I pulled back and looked down at Amelia, looking back up at me like that.

Thoughts, all sorts of thoughts of a girl. And Amelia.

"I'd better get going."

I blurted it before I had really made up my mind.

"Yeah ... okay," she said a little hastily as she tried to draw herself together and not look put out. There was a tiny bit of ... what, relief probably? That was only part of it, though.

I'd known for a long time, to various degrees, that girls have a different way to think about stuff like ... this. I hoped the one last brief kiss and smile I gave her assured her that this didn't suddenly mean she was unappealing or something.

I should've told her. Talked to her, about a lot of things, but especially about this. But I didn't.

I left, not feeling all that terrible. Though I knew that if my life had been simpler, maybe even if Amelia had been the only girl I'd seen tonight that I would've been feeling a lot more regret.

That wasn't to say that I was feeling all that great either. Maybe a little lost. Confused. And not a little hopeless. I was ashamed to admit it, but I was with Amelia. For the first time that consciously connected with something ... that wasn't perfect.

--

**AN: **On kind of a guilty note, Amelia's three brothers are named after Jennette McCurdy's brothers, cause I find it kind of ironic ... and okay, I'm kinda lazy. But I am proud of this chapter's quote, and not just because I was having some difficulties finding one.


	11. Chapter 10

"No jokes Puckett, this is serious chiz!"

--Freddie Benson

i'M Getting Sick of Me

"This way, come on, _this_ way," Amelia said in a whiny voice as she played at tugging me in one direction.

"No, no," I said in the same voice. She laughed a little. "Come on, I just want to check on the feed, just for a second," I said.

"We were just there," Amelia insisted. And I guess she was right. "How much tech news could possibly have been announced in fifteen minutes?"

I was about to try to explain to her even a fraction of how much could be announced in shorter spans during the ITC, but she held up a hand to my mouth as she tried to suppress how much fun she was having.

"No. I won't have it. I won't. We're _not _walking by the computer store again." She pulled me and this time I let her with a fairly good natured grimace.

It wasn't as if I couldn't or wasn't going to check everything that was being announced as soon as I got home, but it was being announced _now_. Not that I could ever get Amelia—or pretty much anyone else really—to understand that, but I suppose another pass through shirts and slacks wouldn't kill me. Well, at least as long as Amelia figured into the equation.

It was getting later, and the Saturday night mall traffic was winding down some. I held Amelia's hand tight between us as I leaned into her while we walked. She put her head against my shoulder and I stared up at the ceiling lights, which were down to that indoor kind of gray that made all the store lights seem so bright.

"Look at that," Amelia tugged me to a halt in front of a large display.

"What?" I asked, trying to discern what shiny piece of merchandise she was referring to. It was kinda difficult since it was mostly stuff geared towards men.

"They've already came out with a new razor," Amelia said.

I focused on one of the center displays, where a razor was set up like the next pinnacle of human engineering. Or something along those humble sort of lines.

"Wow, it's so shiny," I said as I leaned forward and read the display, "The Mach Sillis? What does that even mean?"

Amelia giggled. "I don't know."

"So let's see here," I continued, looking back into the store where the slightly less flashy displays were, "There's the Mach 3, the Mach 3 Turbo, the Mach 3 Power, the Mach Fusion, the Mach ..." We were both laughing quite a bit at this point. "I don't know ... the Mach Mach?"

Amelia leaned into me and squeezed my shoulder, like she was happy that I was the funniest guy in the world.

My laughing slackened a little. "But seriously, what's the difference? They're all exactly the same."

Amelia grew a little more serious as she looked up at me. "No they're not ... are you serious?"

"No," I looked back at the display, "... Yes. Oh, I forgot your dad used to work at a razor place. How does that work anyway? From razors to computer software?"

"It's a long story," she rolled her eyes, "But are you serious?"

"Why?" I asked a little defensively.

She inclined her head a little. "Well, what kind of razor do you have?"

_Crap._

"Oh, you know," I trailed off as I tried to pull away from the window, half seriously, "A sharp one ..."

"Freddie Benson," Amelia said in mock shock, "Are you telling me that you don't have a razor?"

"It's on my to get list," I said, not altogether okay with this line of conversation.

"But don't you ..." she giggled in a way that wasn't particularly funny in this particular context, "Need one?"

"I'm working up to it. Can we go now, please?" I asked.

She resisted my tug and ran a cheeky hand over my cheek. Still giggling of course. "Working up to it—" she managed.

It was getting late.

"It's not funny, okay," I said.

"But you know how to, right?" she asked.

Fragments of me sporadically sneaking my mom's in the rare occurrences when it was needed came to mind. Now _that_ was something I really hoped Amelia—and the rest of the world for that matter—would never find out about.

"Not ... exactly," I admitted, surprisingly with more honesty than I would've thought my mood would permit.

"Really?" she looked at me like it was a big deal, like I was missing out on something. But seriously, it wasn't like _she_ had ever— "It really isn't hard or complicated. I mean, didn't you ever even pretend to shave in the bathtub when you were little? We used to do that all the time ... with dad ..."

She trailed off there for good reason. This time she let me lead her away from the store front.

When I looked back down at her I saw how much she regretted that; a little of my own guilt was inevitable.

"You should know better." I said it that way to purposely get her scared for a moment about what I was talking about. "You don't pick on a guy's facial hair. That's like our third biggest insecurity."

"Oh, yeah?" she asked, "Would you mind it if someone else was picking on you about it?"

"Like who?" I asked.

She shrugged. "So—what are the other two insecurities?"

I lolled my head back up to look at the ceiling and smiled a bit. "Well, the second is our hair—like on top of our head."

Amelia laughed out loud at that.

"I'm serious, do you think Rogaine is a failing product?" I laughed. "I know a guy who's freaking out right now because he's only in his twenties and has a receding hair line."

"Okay," Amelia said with a lingering note of skepticism in her voice, "What's the first insecurity then?"

"Uh uh," I said, "I don't think so."

A few more windows down we paused in front of a clothing/other stuff store. Amelia because she evidently found something else interesting on display. Me because I wasn't really paying attention.

"Whaddya think?" she asked again.

It was like a game. "About the ... shoes?"

"No," she nudged me like I should've known what she was talking about, "The jacket."

"Oh, the jacket," I stalled as I tried to pinpoint exactly what jacket she meant. "I suppose it would ... look good on you."

"_No_," she said, correctly discerning that I wasn't joking and was in fact looking at the completely wrong one. "Not the women's one, that _one—_" she took my hand in hers and pointed at a dark brownish leather one off to the side. "I kinda want to know what _you'd_ look like in it."

"Are you serious?" I asked, trying to muster up the energy to pretend to be interested. "Who do you think I am, Indiana Jones?"

She giggled and wrapped her arms around my stomach. "I think you'd look handsome in it."

"Yeah, right," I said.

"Seriously," she put her head over my shoulder, "Don't you think so?"

"What?" I hadn't really been paying attention. I guess she was actually serious. "No, I don't. Come on ... we should get going."

"Ah, you're no fun." She pretended to whine as she gave tokens efforts at slowing me as we started off again.

"Come on."

--

"Mm hmm," I nodded. Or at least I think I did.

"So the new iPear Pro _isn't_ going to have eight cores?" Nathan asked with an expression I vaguely registered as shocked ... which didn't make ... sense—

"What?" I jerked my head to refocus on him. "What are you talking about?"

Nathan laughed and I looked over at Carly, who was giving us both a bemused expression.

"I don't talk nerd, but I'll assume that was a crazy thing to say ..." She looked over at me with something practically approaching disdain, "If it was enough to get your attention."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, not really feeling up to bristling.

"Yeah, Freds," Nathan said, using his "pet" name for me, "It practically has to take a lot more than computer blasphemy to get your attention anymore. You're like dead, man."

I looked over at him and tried to figure out what I was supposed to say to that. Could say to that.

"Have you been sleeping well lately?" Carly asked, disdain traded for genuine worry.

"No, not really," I murmured and only slightly backed away from her motherly hand. It was worth it if it would make the two of them shut up.

"But yeah, saucy," Nathan nudged his shoulder into Carly's, "We've got to get going if we don't want to miss another banging day of pre-calc."

Carly gave me a look with a relatively ridiculous amount of regret in it as she withdraw her hand and let herself be pulled along by Nathan. "Well, you should get some sleep—but not tonight!" she quickly added.

"Why?" I belatedly called after a second. "What's tonight?"

"The party!" Carly answered like she thought I was kidding.

Oh, yeah. The party.

"Yeah, see you there, Freds!" Nathan shouted back as they began to get swallowed by the pre-bell rush.

But the rush wasn't vigorous enough yet, and my degree of attention deficit wasn't quite rabid enough to miss the demure hand he draped around her waist. Or her only half-hearted attempt to pull out of it. Half-hearted and attempt being key words.

Wow. I'm really glad I didn't miss that. Like really glad.

Oh, yeah. The party. Tonight at Carly's to celebrate mid-term and the welcome but cruelly brief lapse in homework. The one Carly was inviting a lot of people to—"a lot" being irrelevant as long as Sam was coming.

The party. The one I'd more or less had to say Amelia and I were going to be at. The one that I hadn't gotten up the courage to get out of yet. And wasn't going to, no matter how much fantasizing about it made me happy.

Walking to class, not really paying attention. Then I hear her say something and I look behind me. Sam's walking in another direction with a handful of delinquents. Not an altogether unusual occurrence lately. Actually, I would have to not care—which I obviously don't—_and _be completely blind to miss the recent uptrend in the downtrend of people Sam had been running with. "Running" being the verb that they probably practiced a lot in the latter half of their fun.

I turned my head away.

Seriously, there's no way she can be as happy as she looks hanging out with people like that. Not to say that there was anything necessarily wrong with having criminal records and bad hygiene, but she … couldn't be.

"Hey, there's one!"

It was enough to make me turn. Sadly I discovered that they were talking about me.

"I bet the freak channel told him that was a cool outfit," one of the lankier ones said. It was more the way he said it that made the rest of them laugh. Sam included.

I gave a sarcastic smile, the kind that worked the best for these kinds of situations, as I turned away and tried not to increase my pace. I filed the kid who had spoken as Anthony, new this year and someone that I'd noted before vaguely rubbed me the wrong way—that is, in a complete and infuriatingly distinct sort of vague way.

But my neck didn't really begin to burn until I heard Sam's voice rise above the others that were still laughing from Anthony's comment.

"You should see the pajamas he wears."

More laughing. More difficulty.

I just couldn't wait for the party tonight. Just couldn't wait.

--

"I'm just not feeling good," I said as Amelia put a hand to my head. Not that I had a fever, but I honestly wasn't saying this just to try to get out of this party thing. Since we were standing in front of Carly's door, it was a tad too late for that. Sometime during this afternoon I had decided that the fuzzy feelings I'd been experiencing all day weren't of the healthy variety.

"Do you think we should tell Carly?" Amelia asked.

"No, it's not that bad," I assured her as Carly opened the door.

"Hey!" Carly burst out, "I'm so glad you're here early, we've got a ton of stuff to get—" She was pulling us through the door and listing off just what exactly had to be done.

"Oh, I can help with that," Amelia put in quickly when something involving—food I think—came up.

I was glancing back at their bathroom where I'd caught a glimpse of movement and something—

"Yeah, you want to help me with that, Freddie? I've just got a few more to—" Nathan called from the kitchen about whatever Carly had just added to the list.

"Sure," I said, trying not to sound too distracted, "But can I get a—aspirin or something, Carly? I've kinda got a headache—and trying to get medication from my place would—"

"I understand," Carly laughed as she joined Nathan in the kitchen, "There should be some in the medicine cabinet."

"Thanks," I said as I made my way through the living room, which was already half assembled in what I registered was an underwater theme.

I hesitated somewhat at the voices coming from the bathroom and the sound of running water, but I came around the corner when I heard Spencer's voice.

Sam, Spencer, and another guy I didn't recognize were ankle deep in the bathtub, holding a large, conspicuously Spencer-sculpture-looking-thing that they were filling the top of with the shower hose. In true Spencer form, it was large and intriguing in how it looked like a school of octopuses run over by—I don't know what, something big and fast moving. And it was tall and awkward and taking all three of them to keep it from toppling over, among other things. Spencer was holding the showerhead at the very top where he was trying to fill it. All three of them were soaked.

"Hey, Freddie!" Spencer shouted as he half sprayed himself. "How's it going?"

Sam looked up.

"Great," I said, surprised at how distanced I sounded.

"Did Carly send in you here? Cause you can tell her we don't need any—whoa, watch it!" Spencer shouted as the showerhead slipped out of his hands and fell on top of the third guy who was scrunched in the corner trying to hold the bottom. "Sorry, Pablo!" Spencer lunged for the flaying showerhead as it bounced outside the tub and sprayed the toilet. Spencer grabbed it and pointed at the third guy. "This Pablo, he's Sam's date. He's from Columbia. Isn't that awesome?"

_Columbia? Why doesn't she just file to the IRS for desperate?_

"Yeah, awesome," I nodded at him and Pablo nodded back in a way that reinforced my notion that he didn't speak a ton of English. "Hi. I'm just going to … uh, get some aspirin."

Spencer had some weird inclination to continue the conversation. "What's the matter, you feeling all right?"

"Just a headache," I said as I jumped to one of the low points in the lagoon/bathroom's standing water, "I think—" I reached over and grabbed the aspirin bottle, and then looked at her, "I think my _pajamas _have been bothering me lately."

Her face looked sort of bad.

"Oh," Spencer nodded, and looked off to the side, "I guess that happens … often."

"Yeah," I said as I gave one last look at Pablo before jumping back to dry ground. I was halfway down the hall when I heard Sam say something back to Spencer, followed by rushing squishy sounds, and then a hand on my shoulder just before I was about to turn around.

"Hey, listen—" Sam said breathlessly.

"You're—leaking all over the place," I said as I took a step back.

"Yeah, I know," she said, "And I know I—shouldn't've—"

Ugh. Another apology. Sometimes I miss the old Sam.

"Listen," I held my hand up as I gave her what I hoped was an 'it's okay' look, "Don't worry about it. I was just kidding."

"Seriously? You're not insecure about your pajamas anymore?" she said, sounding practically happy, like she was actually happy.

"I—" involuntarily jerked my head a little bit, "Was _never _insecure about my pajamas—"

"Hey, I was just kidding," she punched at my arm. "You know everyone thinks your pajamas are—just so …" She paused and laughed a little.

I wish I had a bigger headache, or something that could've kept me from smiling the little bit I did. It was like watching a mirror where everything I did was magnified. Everything namely being my smile in hers.

"Sam!" Spencer shouted from the bathroom.

"Spencer?" Carly called back worriedly from the kitchen.

"No! No!" Spencer shouted quickly. "We're fine, everything's fine, we don't need any help!" Quieter, so that only Sam and I could hear. "Help, Sam—quick, we need help—"

There was a short splashing sound, and a little bit of water seeped over the hall's carpet edge.

But Sam hadn't taken her eyes off mine. Or stopped smiling.

_What was she on?_

"I guess I gotta—" she made gestures behind her as she backed away.

Oh, yeah. That had to be it. Columbian coffee beans or something.

"You'd better go help Spencer and your date." It was something of a shock, and a miracle that when I checked, I still had something resembling a friendly smile on my face. It was a miracle considering what I actually felt like.

Then she was gone back around the corner. More shouts, some desperate, a few water related noises, and her laughing. All three of them laughing.

--

It was okay. For a while. But then the general crowd wound down, leaving just the usual four of us, along with Nathan, Amelia, Pablo, and Spencer's date. Carly turned the music down a bit and it became harder to hide. I had been mostly doing a decent job of not having a bad time. But I was tired and no matter what I did to avoid her, Sam was within sight, mind, and way too many other things way too often.

Since it was just the eight of us left, Carly had to go and suggest a game of Party Mouse. A competitive board game in which it was possible and actually far too easy to completely ignore how you were supposed to play and pick on someone else.

For awhile I just glared over at Nathan, who happened to be my partner, who was nice enough to be wordlessly sympathetic. When that wasn't enough, I proceeded to glare at my source of wretchedness.

"No, SHRIMP—STRIPS," Sam enunciated carefully as she went through the motions of what the mouth was supposed to do in a proper pronunciation of the phrase. She was trying to get Pablo worked up to saying it five times fast.

He tried again and butchered it more than sufficiently to make everyone laugh.

Amelia, in the fit she was in, nudged me and asked me if I could do it.

No, I couldn't. I knew because this wasn't the first time Sam had addressed this phrase game. Unlike how she was playing it.

Even by that point the atmosphere was fairly relaxed, but beginning to tense. And it should, since Sam was doing every singular thing possible to make this game roundly miserable for me. This whole little pronunciation game she was playing with Pablo wouldn't have been so maddeningly infuriating if she had been leaving me alone game-wise, or even heeding Pablo the slightest bit of attention outside of this.

Ten minutes later marked significantly elevated tensions, but it still wasn't quite awkward by the time Carly came in with a glass and a steaming bowl of one of her experiments.

"But why me? Why do I have to tr—_get _to first?" Spencer asked as Carly set it in front of him.

"I promised you that I would," Carly chided, "Now go on, try it."

Spencer looked down at it and made a noise. His date, Daphne I think was her name, pushed at his arm and called him a baby as Carly went back to her seat.

Spencer put the cup carefully to his lips and took a minute sip as everyone momentarily forgot the game in the general humor of the situation, which was spurred on good naturedly by Nathan's background and rather life-like mimicking of choking and then death and decomposition. Well, everyone excluding me, denoted as everyone, because I was well beyond getting ticked off to pay my entire heed, and the person who was doing the ticking was presently engrossed in planning something out on the board.

But I gave a distracted glance as Spencer carefully put down the glass.

"Hmm," he murmured as he thoughtfully pursed his lips and looked off towards the ceiling, "It tastes a little watery."

Carly, who had just sat down, gave him an incredulous look. "Spencer, it's water."

He frowned down at it as everyone laughed. "Oh."

"I meant the soup—_try the soup_." Carly made feeding motions.

I missed the next few seconds that everyone was watching so breathlessly, mostly because I glanced up and found Sam happening to glance at me the same time. Why did her happiness always have to rest so squarely on my misery?

I jerked my glance over at Spencer, who had taken a sip of the soup and was sporting facial expressions that were almost sufficiently distracting, given the situation.

"Good?" Carly asked doubtfully, not taking much encouragement from the way Spencer was holding the little bit he'd taken in his mouth.

"Mm," Spencer said and nodded with Carly's questioning look. "Tasty," he managed, "It has ... much taste ..."

Then his eyes broke and he wrenched his chair back and lurched for the kitchen.

There was a lot of laughing and exclamations, some from Carly.

"Don't worry," Nathan said and looked over at her, "You're cooking isn't that bad."

Carly was putting on a brave show. She raised her eyebrows at him. "You want to try a little?"

The look Nathan gave her was enough to send everyone into hysterics.

Sam looked up with a slight smile on her face, but had obviously missed the majority of this. She looked at me questioningly, but I only stared back as everything else moved around us. She bit her lip a little, but didn't immediately or altogether look away as fast as she should have. Not that I wasn't supposed to do the same thing, but I was somewhere well beyond caring about sticking to the laid out etiquette and protocol.

Time and the game proceeded some more. Things got worse.

I stared over across at her awhile later. Stared, glared, whatever.

I don't think it was just the aspirin wearing off, because I don't think it was just my mild fever thing that was making my head feel so hot.

She smirked back like everything was all perfectly normal and grossly unfair. Like it should be.

This was ridiculous. Just plain ridiculous, and I was getting tired of saying it out loud and no one _listening_, or at least doing anything about it.

It was like a steady stream of arguing, not ending and definitely not changing anything. The words were there, coming out of my mouth, but it was like they weren't mine. They were having absolutely no effect. Everyone was just doing their best to ignore us. And the feeling. That feeling that I wanted to inflict harm on something, because it was just so _unfair_. And stupid. There was just no way I could describe how stupid it was. And maddeningly infuriating. Why did she have to do this to me?

I normally wasn't a violent person. But I wanted to do bad things to that chick, as Sam fond of it putting it. Hurt her, maybe not physically, but somehow—because she always did this to me. Singled me out, and it was getting to be more than I could stand. Especially now, in front of Amelia, in front of everyone.

It was nearly terrifying how badly I wanted to hurt her—or do something. Something that involved how her hair was done up, how her lips were always there when I looked; I had been having plenty of time to look tonight. The way she laughed when she was laughing at something other than me. The way she watched the game when she wasn't looking at me, figuring something out in her head, probably how best to tick me off next. The way she was treating Pablo. The way she looked when she looked at me looking at her looking just … so attractive. Not attractive in the way that it was usually taken, of course. But in a kinetic way, like she was swallowing up the whole room. And I supposed the way it was usually taken as well.

Amelia said something to Carly and I looked over at her quickly, just a mere notch or two below feverishly hoping that she didn't realize how badly I wanted to touch Sam.

This wasn't fair.

I had forgotten what this was like. How bad and overwhelming it could be—was. But it also made everything—move. I had forgotten about that too.

Nathan leaned over once when everyone else was elsewhere engaged as he leaked me a hint about what he was planning on the board. Then he added that he was sorry that he had said I was dead today ... in a sort of surprised way.

It finally ended. Needless to say we didn't win.

I guess it was a significant moment afterwards, though by now it practically passed as routine. I was in the kitchen, pressing cool water against my face with my hands when Sam came up beside me to get something out of the cupboard. She said something that I honestly didn't catch. But it didn't really matter.

"Just shut up." I think I muttered it, but it may have been a murmur. In either case, it was about as unfriendly as I could make it.

I actually succeeded in not looking up, so I have no idea what her reaction was to that because she walked away without saying anything.

The remaining tensions eased as the group slowly left. As if just remembering that he was her date, Sam listened to Pablo speaking quietly and left with only a general good bye, unsurprisingly not sparing me a glance.

Spencer made sure to hand out to each of us one of his newest inventions, flavored bean-shaped things he had dubbed "Dream Drizzlers." He explained that these were the prototypes of one of his better ideas, or at least as I thought. Not that I was sporting any serious intentions to ingest any of them anytime soon. Supposedly they would cause someone to have nice dreams that they could remember. It was a wholly untapped market, as Spencer put it.

There wasn't much else significant party-wise. Me and my mom drove Amelia back to her place and we both tried to pretend that what had happened tonight wasn't awkward. It was a good thing she had no idea just how awkward.

Then it was home and bed.

Then Carly called.

I had been on the edges of considering sleep when she urgently went on about something about cleaning up some party decorations.

Grouchy was the adjective of the hour, even for an urgent request from Carly Shay. She was up in the studio. I was drowsy enough that I only registered that she was still in the same party clothes and seemed unnaturally animated about something.

"Oh, I already put those away," she said dismissively about the decorations she'd supposedly dragged me over about. She went on about something about the party.

I tried to cover my yawn.

Something about Nathan. I involuntarily perked when the drift hit on something about dating.

"I don't know," Carly said, suddenly closer than I remembered, "I mean he's cute and really a cool guy and everything ..."

Was she _trying _to make disagreeable conversation?

"So ... what do you think?" she asked me after a few moments of silence.

"You're asking me if you should date Nathan?" I asked, trying my best to figure out why she wasn't realizing how absurd this was. And faintly insulting.

"I just don't know ..." she said softly and stepped a little closer, "I just don't have that much time for that ... type of boyfriend. And lately ... I've been kinda thinking about a different type ..."

An arm on my shoulder and that questioning look of hers might've been merely friendly ... but it wasn't. At what point had I fallen asleep?

Dread clutched my stomach. I hadn't _actually_ taken one of Spencer's Dream Drizzlers things, had I?

But no, this was real, this was happening, and this was Carly. So it obviously had to be something innocent ... completely misguided, but innocent—

"Freddie," she whispered as she leaned even closer, "What if you asked me out again ... and you knew I had a different answer? Would you?"

_Get away, get away now!—_

Situations between the two of us were never supposed to be romantically awkward because of her account. That would've been enough to send me into therapy even if I hadn't presently been feeling like jank.

"Uh ... yeah ..." I started, and started to pull away.

"Aha!" Carly triumphantly jabbed a finger and then gave me a token slap.

"Ah—what was that for?" I demanded as I really pulled away. Not that it hurt.

"I knew it!" Carly went on.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded.

She jabbed a finger at me. "You're dating Amelia and don't really like her!"

I gaped. "What? I do too!"

"Oh, right," she rolled her eyes, "And are you going to tell her tomorrow that you were going to 'uh, yeah' with me?"

"Uh, _no_," I put a hand to my head, because it hurt more than where she'd slapped me, "That was not an agreeing 'uh, _yeah_.' It was a 'you're being creepy and I don't know what to say' 'uh, _yeah_.'"

"Oh, and it's not even mildly creepy when you do it all the time to me?" She began to look a little angry, just past the general indignation thing on to something more personal.

"I don't do it all the time," I insisted, "I'm _dating_ Amelia, remember?"

She put her hands on her hips. "I'm talking about _every other _time of every other minute I've ever known you."

"Stop," I closed my eyes, "Just stop. Could you—_calmly—_and _quietly_ explain to me why you dragged me all the way over her to—to—" I made frustrated gestures, "Lie to me?"

"Because I thought you weren't—aren't," she amended, "Serious about Amelia. And since I _kind_ of really like her—"

"If it was any of your business," I yelled, "Then you would know that I do like her and what you just did was—was—"

"What do you mean if it was any of my business?" Carly retorted.

_Don't go there. Don't go there._

"What would make you even _think_ that?" I asked instead.

"Oh, I don't know," Carly said sarcastically, "Maybe because tonight might make someone think that Pablo and Amelia have a better chance of getting married before you two do."

"Please," I muttered as I turned, "I don't want to hear this."

"Well that's too bad," Carly whirled in front of me, "You've been saying that a lot lately and maybe—just maybe—" her finger was in my chest as she fought for words, "Maybe you shouldn't have been a jerk to Sam tonight!"

"Me?" I looked at her in genuine surprise. "Me?"

"Yeah, I heard what you said to her!"

"And did you happen to miss what she was saying to me _all night_?" I asked in horror, "She was purposely being _the_ jerk to me all night!"

"No!" Carly yelled. "She was practically back to normal. She said before that she thought _you_ were almost back to normal. She was just acting like her normal self tonight and you know it!"

"Her normal self?" I asked incredulously. "Does anyone happen to realize that maybe _I don't like her normal self_? I mean, does anyone think I enjoy that?"

"You didn't mind it so much before," Carly put in, like she had this massive revelation she was trying to make me see, "What's the difference now?"

"I'm just fed up with her, okay?" I say loudly.

Then nothing. We're both quiet for long enough that it becomes uncomfortable, and my beleaguered mind has time to actually sort of catch up.

"Are you serious?" I asked quietly, because it doesn't even seem possible to go back to shouting. "Did Sam really say that stuff?"

"Yeah," Carly answered, even quieter than I was.

I was going to shrug at her, but the attempt came out garbled. And I was tired—bed sounded heavenly right about now. Along with maybe a couple quarts of NightQuil. I was turning to leave.

"What ..." Carly began, so quietly that I almost didn't hear her, "What did you mean it was none of my business?"

My thoughts of how to evade the topic more or less stalled at the scared look she was giving me. I don't think I could've tried even if I had wanted to.

"You're like here ..." I said slowly, trying to grasp the best flaying thread that was running through my mind, "To yell at me ... and stuff, but you're not really here. You're always busy with homework, or ... just school. You're only here for the unpleasant stuff."

She looked like she was trying not to cry as she stared back at me. For a long moment I didn't think she was going to say anything. "What do you mean?"

I held up my hands almost helplessly, unable to fathom how I could be anymore direct.

Carly began to look a little angry. "You ... _you_ said that it was great."

"What was?" I asked out of reflex, but also in genuine confusion.

She sucked in a shaky breath.

"You said that it was great, that it was all a great opportunity. That you guys _didn't mind _... that—that it was a great opportunity—" she nearly lost it. "You lied to me."

"Carly," I tried, "I didn't lie—"

"Yes you did!" Now she was definitely angry and was definitely crying.

"I didn't lie," I protested, "You were happy at the beginning of the year. I just didn't want to hurt your feelings—"

"No!" she yelled. "No! You just didn't want to go through how bad it would be for _you_ to tell me the truth! You _lied_ to me!"

"I lied?" I yelled back. "I lied? You're saying _I'm_ the dishonest one when you make me come over here and do _this _to me?"

"I want you to leave," she managed as she furiously wiped at her eyes, "I want you to leave now."

"That's what I've been _trying_ to do," I answer, but I don't want to leave like this anymore.

"I haven't liked you all this year," Carly said, her attempts to recover herself finally failing entirely.

I was perfectly within my right to leave now, at that, without another word. If I still had been angry that was probably what I would've done. But it would only confirm it.

Softly. "Me either."

When I put my arms around her I discovered just how much she wanted to cry.


	12. Chapter 11

"_Meheh, you had to be there_."

--Freddie Benson

i'M Sick of Watching

_"What is this?" I asked immediately upon opening my locker._

_"Well, what does it look like?" Amelia asked from behind me._

_It looked suspiciously like the leather jacket from the mall. I took it out and found that it was the jacket from the mall._

_"You didn't have to do this," I almost moaned, trying not to think how much it had cost._

_"But I wanted to." She hugged me and I hugged her back convincingly enough. _

_It __**was**__ sort of a cute gesture. Sort of._

_"But you shouldn't have ..." I looked at her honestly, "It's just not ... me. I don't know when I'll want to wear it."_

_She looked back at me."Well ... you never know."_

--

There were some sounds behind me that I subconsciously labeled as post-school hours hooligans. This was confirmed when I bothered to glance over my shoulder, more to make sure that they weren't coming my way than anything.

It was kind of distracting the way they were shouting when I was trying to remember the finer details of what would constitute homework for tonight.

"All right, the party's here!"

This glance was more in annoyance than anything. The double take was more for shock.

But the flash of blonde that I thought I'd seen was lost in the tumult of malcontents as they were all moving and shouting about something. I jerked my head back when some of them looked down my way.

Then the shouting grew slightly more subdued as the conversation changed to something I couldn't pick up. There was also a general movement as they all started down the hall. But before they passed the corner I saw what I was looking for.

Sam was hanging off of Anthony's arm and talking about something I couldn't hear over the others. And she was smiling.

Then they were gone, and their voices fading.

"Well, that's just wonderful," I muttered out loud.

But it wasn't. What was she doing with that scuz bag?

I planted my hands on either side of my locker and stared into it, trying to remember what I had been trying to remember before so that I wouldn't have to think about that ridiculously infectious smile she was giving—

I slammed the door shut.

That was it. It wouldn't be a big deal to see where they were going; just a harmless little jaunt to satisfy an innocent dash of curiosity.

I started walking off the way they'd disappeared. There was no need to hurry. Just play it cool, Freddie.

_Oh my God, but what if they see me?_

I jerked around and walked back to my locker. A second more of mental civil war and pounding impatiently on my locker followed. There wasn't much time—

_Okay. I'll do it. _I turned and started to calmly walk back the way I'd started. _But what if they __**do**__ see me?_

I made it back to my locker, probably breaking some ten-foot dash records as I jerked the door open and shoved my arm into the rearmost recesses of my top shelf for my baseball cap.

Ramming it as far down as my head would permit, I wished I had a mirror. It would be enough though, wouldn't it?

I pulled at a handful of my shirt and groaned. Exceptionally well-pressed polo shirts didn't mesh well with punk attire—or whatever it was called.

_Time, time, no time—_

Then the leather jacket that Amelia had bought me was in hand and I was halfway down the hall before my locker slammed shut behind me.

I'd never really put much thought into how important arm balance was to the motions of running, but I got something of a crash course while trying to put my jacket on in the way that most Western civilizations held as correct and proper while sprinting faster than PE would ever get me to run.

_Why am I running? This isn't important, there's no rush—_

They were nowhere in sight when I rounded on the third hallway, and I did my best to pick up my pace. Or really tried to break even from where I'd started, which was saying something. My lungs were unionizing at about this time, probably getting ready to chuck Molotov Cocktails into my factories. In medical terms that might be termed _massive heart attack_.

But I began to pick up bits of their voices over the pounding in my ears before I'd completely run out of hope and hallways.

I was feeling every muscled portion of my body involuntarily dragging by the time I turned a corner and caught a glimpse of them just beginning to turn the next. This happened to be somewhere within the realm of divine timing as it allowed me to dash this one last hall and come up behind them just as they started the last hallway that led to the exit.

Trying to breathe normally when you're having an internal oxygen famine isn't easy to pull off, but only one kid tagging along at the rear even bothered to glance back at me. And he was small enough to probably be routinely mistaken for a fifth grader, so I really wasn't too worried.

I was more concerned about trying to catch a glimpse of Sam. This turned out to be harder than it should've been because she was apparently near the front and I guessed that there were probably about twenty of them.

But I got my chance once the group reached the first set of doors, which they of course had to kick open with their feet. Following that was a fairly short set of stairs that dropped to ground level, but it was enough for me to get a look at Sam as I reached the top of them and the front of the group began to go through the outside doors.

Sam's relatively unchanged happy countenance made me hesitate at the top of stairs, along with the merry group's choice of rhetoric, which I usually was fortunate enough to ingest from a distance.

This was as far as I'd wanted to go, right?

But I found myself hurrying to catch up with them again, trying to readjust my baseball cap and pull my collar up. I just wanted to know where they were headed, that's all. I'm sure someone would say something about it, and that's all I would need.

I caught several more glimpses of Sam and Anthony, usually whenever the group turned a corner. But that was about it in terms of productivity as I hovered near the rear, trying to remain inconspicuous, which I was never much good at in regards to these sorts of social circles.

They knocked over every trashcan and just about everything else of a similar nature wherever they could. Meanwhile I was trying not to look around to see if anyone was dialing 911 as I ran through a mental list of possible destinations.

But given this sort of crowd and their given sort of preferred entertainment, I was drawing blanks the farther we went.

"The football field?" I murmured a block before we came into view of the bits of green that made up one of the school's sports areas.

As disappointing as that practically was, it gave me something to think about as we trudged up the slight hill leading to the gates. Okay, a little harmless curiosity was perfectly understandable, but what was the difference between an innocuous destination and a … not so innocuous destination to me? Maybe my little harmless curiosity extended to seeing what they were doing—just what degree of illegal Sam was getting into. That's all. And just what exactly she was doing with that … gentleman of hers.

About a quarter of the group rushed forward ahead of the rest and scaled the gate in a couple fluid hops. I felt something akin to apprehension as the rest neared and started doing the same.

Sam made it look easy. Anthony gave her his hand as she dropped down to the other side.

I felt my mouth working in what probably looked like constipated circles.

It wasn't just that it was illegal … and the fact I really had no idea if I could hop any sort of fence in any manner passable to delinquent standards, but … actually I thought those were good enough reasons to be petrified.

I could just turn around, right? They probably wouldn't even notice, and if they did it wasn't as if they were going to recognize me.

I took a shudder that was intended to be a deep breath just before I picked up a little bit of speed and brought my foot up as I scrambled for a grip on the gate pipes. This wasn't exactly a ten-foot high chain link fence. It was just a chest high swinging gate, but it more than enough to make me nervous.

But something clicked between that and the time my feet hit the ground on the other side. I wasn't exactly feeling 'bad'—the cool sort of bad—but I was definitely somewhere between cool and ridiculously cool. Maybe it was the jacket.

At this point the group kind of lost cohesion as some of them ran off towards the concessions and announcing stand, while some of the others stood around near the gate. The vast majority, however, didn't hesitate as they made for the adjoining baseball diamond.

Sam was moving with that group, still walking close to Anthony. So I jammed my hands in my pockets and chased after them, trying to keep looking at the ground as I drew a couple of glances from the kids that had stopped.

By this time it had become almost completely overcast, and it wasn't all that warm to begin with. Certainly not warm enough for just a polo shirt. Now it wasn't just for identity purposes that I was really glad to have the jacket.

As I jogged down the slight transition from the field's grass to the dirt infield, I had to jerk my head around as Sam and Anthony turned my way. But from what I could see I had little to worry about since Sam was too wrapped up in whatever they were talking about to really pay attention to anything else. She was also wrapped up in one of his arms; she was playing the whole girlfriend-is-cold shtick that I'd seen way too many times. On other girls that is. Of course that nub who was touching her in way too many places was only wearing a T-shirt and pretending that it wasn't bothering him. I mean, it had to be.

I realized that I didn't have much of a plan as this was evidently the big bad destination. Some of them had gone into the nearest dugout while the rest milled around in front, pushing each other and doing all kinds of other stuff that I wasn't interested in.

Sadly, the one that I _was _interested in was now no longer consistently facing the other direction, so I more or less had to move towards one of the tamer edges of the milling group, near a trio that was talking calmly about some relatively mundane topic, like breaking into a convenience store or something like that.

This was going fairly well, but I had to keep my face turned away and my observing to a frustrated level. Once Sam seemed to catch me looking at her, but after I jerked my head away and held my breath for a few seconds without any sign that she had, I concluded that she was entirely too distracted with that scrawny punk.

I experienced a moment of distraught when one of my glances came up Sam-less. But they had only moved with a few other kids into the dugout where they were laughing about some kind of imitation one of them was doing. Of course no one was sitting in the benches like they were supposed to, because it was cooler or something to sit on top of them. Not that it particularly bothered me. Or all the underage smoking that was going on.

Realizing that this was something resembling a chance, I causally inched over to where another trio was talking just in front of the dugout. Leaning my back against the fence, I finally was close enough to catch more than a few unintelligible snatches of the conversation.

"Yeah, that's so lame," one of them near me was saying in regards to the imitation.

"So I wouldn't make it onto iCarly?" the imitator asked in Sam's direction as there was general laughter.

"We like to have talented people on iCarly, yes," Sam nodded and there was more laughing.

"Why do you even do that kiddy show? It's so retarded," another kid spoke up.

"That's probably why you watch it," Sam countered. She made it sound so easy. And it wasn't just the quip; the delivery ensured that there would be nothing more on that topic.

It took one of the boys inside the dugout glancing out in my direction for me to realize that I was smirking.

"Hey, you guys coming or what?" one particularly hyper boy, a freshman I thought, asked as he leaned into the dugout, "We've got the cherry bombs and the lock off!"

"Don't blow yourself up," one of them said in a haughtier sort of voice, but several others were already running and shouting towards the utility shed where there was already a fair gathering.

"Stupid freshmen," one of them muttered from on top of the bench.

"That Jeff kid is going to lose an arm," one of the boys sitting next to Anthony said out loud, not sounding as if that would be something he wouldn't like to see.

The group near the shed parted enough for me to see where someone, presumably 'that Jeff' kid, was handing out a fair number of cherry bombs attached to each other somehow. Still, the whole misdemeanor in progress was a lot less distracting than the way Anthony was leaning on Sam.

"Stupid kids," Anthony, the epitome of age and maturity, said. He didn't seem like he was paying very much attention to the other kids either.

Sam smiled and looked up from between his legs where she was leaning back and playing with a cut in his jeans.

"I just want to pound that dumb one's face, what's his name?" one of the bigger kids said, the one that neatly fell into the washout jock genus.

The conversation continued on about what various degrees of stupid the other kids were and what each wanted to do to them. But I was straining to hear what Anthony and Sam were talking about in low tones, with way too much eye contact for me to totally stay above nausea.

"Too many little kids ... you wanna get out of here?" Anthony was saying.

I missed Sam's response, but a moment later there was shuffling and some of the kids asking them where they were going.

This proved to be a problem as I was immediately to the right of the dugout entrance, within easy identifying range. Sweat broke out and I made to turn the other way, but they saved me the trouble and turned to the left.

"Hey now—now Sam, keep your hands off of him—" One of the boys called after them and Anthony gave them his gestural answer without turning. Everyone in the dugout was laughing and making sounds. "But that's no joke. I wouldn't want to mess with that, way too frickin' crazy—"

I stood there, watching them walking across the football field, hand in hand.

That was it. I'd found out what I'd wanted to know, and a lot more than I would've liked. I had already stayed long enough.

I started walking back towards the gate, which was in the same general direction they were walking, so I took a little bit more of a slant to it. But it wasn't as if they were going to notice me. I even tried to pretend that I couldn't hear their voices carrying.

"—Don't get it, I thought Seattle was supposed to be rainy. New York gets more rain than this place does."

Oh yeah, I remembered that Anthony was new in school this year.

Sam was saying something and laughing in a very un-Sam way. "—Say that—It's actually because it's cloudy so often. Though it does rain a lot—"

Sam made this sort of surprised sound that was enough to make me look over at them, but it was just a case of him leaning over into her. And kissing her. Well, actually kissing would be the polite way to categorize it.

I had this immature notion to yell that I had beat him already. Not that I normally would care about that ... too much anyway. But this imploding sensation inside of me made me want to do a lot of immature things. And I knew that it wasn't just because of the kissing thing—just the fact that they were talking and laughing and _enjoying each other's company_, at least as far as it seemed, was enough to make me wish—a lot of things.

It was like something was pulling me in two directions. I just happened to be walking in one.

It didn't matter what was going on. It was none of my business. Sam could take care of herself. It was her choice.

I kept repeating that to myself, trying to convince myself that was true despite the way they were walking.

_Sam can take care of herself. It's none of my business. What could I do anyway?_

I slowed to a halt, my hand pounding on my leg as I watched them heading into the area where they parked all of the school buses.

_There's nothing I can do._

A loud bang split through the cold air and hit my chest like a fist. I whirled to where all the shouting and laughing was coming from, and then back to where Sam and Anthony had disappeared.

It was probably something innocent, right? They were probably just going to hold hands, kiss, and continue making gooey eyes at each other, while Sam pretended to be the tough girl totally into the bad boy.

Yeah. Right. Who was I kidding?

But maybe ...

I flipped my collar down with a frustrated motion and started walking towards the buses.

_I'm not going to do this, I'm not going to do this. I'm just going to go home, as I very well should._

A few dozen steps into this trajectory I began to actually listen to myself and altered direction once more. And then I stopped again.

I suppose it was kind of rude to stare down at the ground as if it could supply me with an answer.

_I don't have to do anything. It's not up to me to stop Sam from making stupid decisions. If she wants to end up with ugly kids and a state financed trailer home, that's her call. I have no ... moral ... Sam's my friend._

I was turning and walking quickly towards the buses.

_It doesn't matter what's happened, she's my friend._

I was kind of running.

_I've gotta do something, I've gotta do something—_

What, exactly, I didn't know. It was enough of a start when I made it to the buses, but after that I was lost. I didn't even know if they had just kept on going to the street.

Turning around enough times to feel a little dizzy, I began running down the rows of buses. Skidding along the dirt and gravel, I realized that I really had kinda ran all this way. My cheeks were burning against the air and I was drenched inside my jacket, which had abruptly turned into overkill.

Ducking and peering around every row I passed, I had a sick sort of feeling before I reached the end. When I did reach it I felt somewhere in the range of horrible. Fighting against despair, I glanced up and down what I could see of the street, certain that I would be able to at least hear them if they'd gone that way. Or at least kinda certain.

I rubbed my shoe in the gravel as I turned back to the buses. There was this whole split notion of wanting and not wanting to find them here. After all, the only reason why they'd be—

I began running along them again, peering into each the best I could and jumping to make up the difference. If I did happen to find them—

There. They were right there. I could see them through the back window of one of the middle buses not twenty feet away. I can't believe I missed them before.

Anthony looked like he was trying to smother her while doing the Turkish Whirlpool step.

I _can't _believe I missed them before.

It was the most disgusting thing I'd ever seen that I couldn't take my eyes off of. That imploding sensation in my chest hit pain threshold levels. But it was different now. Like it was a resigned sort of imploding.

Anthony was taking it a bit easier now, his hands still all tangled up in her hair and his mouth everywhere. But then he began to slow, and they stayed that way for a long moment.

I pulled my head back down to the ground and clenched my eyes shut. But that didn't last long, and when I looked back up his arm was reaching under her shirt. Sam's hands almost immediately came down to his, holding it down. He pushed her shirt up a little ways, and then she pushed it back down a little ways, and then they repeated the process. Only each time it went a little higher, and I could see a little bit more of her stomach as Anthony began sliding her down on the seat.

I found myself marching towards the opposite side of the bus, towards the door.

_What can I do?_

I should just go home. It didn't exactly look like Sam was in anything resembling control, but it wasn't like she was playing the maiden in distress either.

_What am I doing?_

That was a good question.

I reached the bus door and tried to find my breath and maybe even a plan. At the moment all thoughts of justification had fled; there was only the very real need to do _some_thing, because something very wrong was happening.

I put my head down and pounded on the door. There were some muffled voices and I pounded on it again.

The door swung open. "What are you doing you little pervert?"

Did I call Anthony a scrawny moron before? Heh. Well, I discovered that's a lot easier to do when he's not standing in front of you looking murderous.

I glared up at him and also discovered that I had no idea what to say. All those good reasons that had brought me here were staying maddeningly incoherent.

"Leave her—" I started.

Anthony stepped down from the bus step and shoved. Shoved me to be precise, hard enough that everything spun when my head knocked into the bus behind me. Then there was gravel digging into my cheek and mouth and hands.

"Little punk," Anthony was saying, along with various other sentence fragments as he laughed. "How does that feel?"

The 'that' in question turned out to be a foot to the stomach. And it didn't feel good.

But I had regained enough of my bearings that pure, blistering instinct was able to take over. I surged to my feet and grabbed for two handfuls of his stupid T-shirt.

I was never good at wrestling. Or any kind of organized violence for that matter. I didn't even really know what to do with the hold I had.

But Anthony did when he took an accompanying hold of my jacket.

He wrenched his arms, and by extension me, to the right. I was just able to keep from being thrown back down to the ground. We both grunted as I took in a panicked breath and tried to push back against him.

It hurt to breathe where he had kicked me.

But if he was scrawny, I was flimsy. Probably non-existent. And I was getting a good chance for a second appraisal of the muscular structure that I was grabbing at.

Anthony resisted my attempts at kinetic force and abruptly reversed his direction to wrench me to the left and into his waiting leg. In a practiced motion he was sending me back down to the dirt and gravel. This time he followed me down far enough to plant a hand on my shoulder and throw the other into my mouth.

The whole lips being smashed against teeth thing didn't feel good either, and my resistance was essentially reduced to throwing my arms up.

But Anthony was laughing again, now that he'd seen that there wasn't anything to worry about.

"You're that Benson kid, aren't you?" He stood up and wiped at his face as he laughed. "Didn't you ever take Taekwondo after Math club you freak?" He sent a foot into one of my shins.

I cried out.

_Oh God, oh God he's broken my leg—_

"You were friends with her, weren't you?" Anthony rubbed at his running nose again. "Don't you get—" another kick, "—It?" Another.

My legs were throbbing. I just wanted to die. Then I could stopped sniffling.

"Don't you know—"

"Wait!" It wasn't an overly concerned protest. Actually it didn't really sound like a protest at all.

I did my best little shuffling that I could manage and looked up through bleary eyes as Sam put a hand on Anthony's shoulder as she bent down over me.

"Forget it," Sam said as she kneeled on the ground, "He's done."

"Yeah, don't want to kill him," Anthony said as he caught his breath.

This wasn't pleasant. This whole crying in front of Sam thing. And the whole pain situation wasn't very nice either.

Sam fished my cell phone out of my pocket without looking at me. Flipping it open, she dialed a number and then tossed it down on my chest.

"Your little Carly cakes should be able to come once her lab's over," Sam said and Anthony laughed in a disbelieving sort of way behind us. As if he knew anything about us.

I stared up in something that probably looked like disbelief and maybe even a bit of pleading thrown in for good measure as she stood and really looked at me for the first time.

Her eyes froze, as if she hadn't planned on doing that. They dropped almost immediately from unconcerned and maybe a bit angry to something less steady.

"I thought you might not want your other Barbie doll to see you now," she mumbled.

"Maybe you should call an ambulance," Anthony said as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. He gathered a little bit in the back of his throat and spit it out at me.

Sam abruptly went from being gently pulled away to the one doing the pulling. I caught one last look from her before their backs were turned.

They turned the corner and there was only his fading laughter, and then nothing.

My breathing began to slow as I tried not focus on how much every other part of my body throbbed, and how the more insistent parts of me hurt.

That was it.

I closed my cell phone, not even looking to see if Carly had picked up. Then I leaned myself back down to the ground. At some point I had stopped crying, even though this throbbing kind of hurt was probably worse than the stuff that had come at first. I had stopped crying, but I was still mad that I could feel the left overs on my cheeks.

I felt like a lot of things. And I felt a lot of things. Angry, as mentioned, but more sad than anything. I was doing my best to focus on the pain, then I wouldn't have to think about her face anymore.

Then I heard gravel crunching, almost hesitantly. My heart started to race, as fears of a Sam-less Anthony returning, or maybe some other upstanding citizen came to mind.

I closed my eyes as they came closer. Given my situation and temperance I couldn't really let or keep any hopes in my head that it was her.

They stopped for a moment and then there was a hand on my leg.

I guess my cry wasn't exactly manly enough for her.

"Stop moving," Sam said as she did her best to feel at it.

I dared to open my eyes and look up at her, but she was doing her best to take an interest in every part of me other than my face.

"You know, I didn't have this conscience problem before you and Carly." She finally looked up at my face and reached for my mouth, but I pulled my head back.

"Just go away."

"How do you expect me to if you can't even do it?"

"Please?" I was admittedly feeling a bit testy. "I just want to die alone. Ahh ah!—Ouch?" I gave her a shocked expression as she touched at my lip.

"You're such a baby," she muttered, "You're not going to die."

"Maybe … and maybe I just want you to go away."

"No, you don't." She looked at me.

"Maybe I didn't _before _you let that idiot pound me into hamburger," I really tried to glare back at her, "I would've liked to have skipped that part."

"I was still a little angry, okay?" She was making sure not to look at me. "A _lot_ angry."

I had enough tact not to ask what about exactly, since there was ... sort of a list. Instead I rubbed at my shoulder a bit, "Not that I couldn't've take him …"

"Uh huh," she sounded unconvinced.

"He just didn't fight fair." I saw that she was smiling and my face got an uncontrollable urge to do the same. Pain followed.

"Uh huh," she repeated, "Face it, Freddie. You're not really much of a lover, but at least we know you're definitely not a fighter."

"Oh, thanks a lot," I managed to mutter. I was sort of doing this rocking motion that distracted me enough that I was almost able to converse regularly. And keep from crying. "Sorry that I can't ever be—cool—" The rocking motion stuttered for a moment.

She kind of laughed. Kind of, but didn't. Like she was trying not to cry either. Which of course made no sense since she was Sam, for starters, and I was the one who was suffering. So I don't what it was.

"You're such a dork," she said a little unsteadily as she looked down at me. "I never wanted you to be cool, Freddie."

Somehow the way she said it inexplicably made Anthony come to mind. I think I had much preferred Pablo.

She tried to look away. And then she was raising me to my feet.

"Now … come on," she said as she slung my arm over her shoulders and half carried me.

I didn't know what to say. I wasn't even sure what she had just said. It was just about all I could do to keep from crying or passing out, and I couldn't spare the required attention to try to decode what she'd just said as we started hobbling along.

For the first minute or so we just moved in silence. Though at the pace we were making, it amounted to about a hundred feet, or to the street in other words.

"Ugh," she said with a sigh as we took a break and I leaned against the fence, "I remember when you weighed like ninety pounds."

She looked at me and I looked back. She pursed her lips as she nodded and looked off to the side.

"So are you going to say anything?" she asked.

"What do you want me to say?" I asked.

She sighed. "I don't know. Just … I want you to know … I wish this hadn't happened."

I put my hand to my lip and adopted a challenging expression. "And that means …"

"I'm sorry, okay?" she said a little forcefully. "Listen … I've really hated this. This whole thing since I stayed over at your place. And I just …" she clapped her hands and looked at me. I raised my eyebrows. "Are you going to help me at all? This is kinda your fault too, you know."

"I know." There. That hadn't been that hard.

"And I appreciate your …" she raised her eyebrows and let her head dip a little, "Completely dorky rush to save me … or whatever you call it. Not that I didn't have everything under control or …"

It was like we were taking turns raising eyebrows.

She nodded a little and then broke. "Okay. Here it comes." She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry about before and I thank you for what you just did. Okay? Is that good enough? Because I'm not doing it again. You know those are the two hardest things to say."

There was actually a third one.

But she'd done it. Everything from the time she'd slugged me to about five minutes ago now felt ridiculously stupid. Both sides of it. Okay, I'll admit that I knew I had hated it—and not just the general hostility aspect—pretty much the whole time. But I hadn't _realized_ just how much until now. There was that immeasurable distance between knowing and realizing again.

I guess I was that much wiser for being able to see her like this. Or just plain see her at all.

"Yeah, I know," I felt my expression become all unangry and horribly vulnerable, "I'm sorry too ... so sorry. These past couple months have just been … so messed up."

"Yeah, totally," she said, looking away as she rubbing at her neck.

"And I've really …" I made motions with my hands mirroring the teetering sensation I was feeling. Was I really going to— "Missed you." –go there?

When she looked at me again I think it was pretty obvious. So obvious that she was quick to reassert her carrying position and start us off again with a smile.

"Come on, slugger," she said, "It's only … five or so blocks to the bus stop."

And suddenly that distance didn't sound so ridiculous, and not just because the throbbing was finally reaching almost bearable degrees and the worst of the pain had curbed.

Suddenly I was feeling a lot better.

--

We talked just to talk. That was unbelievably nice, just to be able to discuss nothing with her. Just to talk to her.

In talking with her about nothing I realized that I had missed something. A lot of somethings, actually. And not just the majority of school and major happenings that my relationship with Amelia had shut me off from.

I suspected that a lot of that appreciation was leaking out of my face, because she always looked surprised when she looked over at me. There was that and a lot of other little, exceptionally cautious aspects of her. I don't think her demeanor could've been more affected if Amelia had actually been walking alongside us.

I really wished she wouldn't be like that. In fact, for roughly the same quantity I was enjoying myself, I was hating this hanging wall about nearly as much.

I told her some joke, about my beleaguered condition (again), which I didn't actually think was that funny. _That _funny, I mean. But she laughed. And I could tell she didn't fake it.

"You're such a tough guy," she said as she playfully pushed her fist into my shoulder. I managed to keep most of the strangled look of pain off of my face because I didn't want to ruin the moment.

By this point I was mostly walking on my own, with only the occasional support. Of this I'll admit I was kind of proud.

"So …" I tried to begin casually. "Are you going to be seeing any other tough guys in the near future? Or maybe that … _tough guy_ you were just with?"

"What do you think?" she gave me an amused look.

"I actually don't want to think about it at all," I gave her a pointed glance, "But I want to know what _you _think. And while we're at it, I'd kinda like to know what you were_ thinking_."

Bushwell Plaza came into view.

"Why do you care so much?" she asked, sort of looking at the ground in a sort of casual way.

"I thought that's what friends did," I said and she briefly looked up at me, "So …"

She rolled her eyes. "No, Fredward. I'm not."

"Not going to …" I made a rolling motion with my hand.

"See that _tough guy _anymore," she finished with a monotone voice.

"_That _tough guy?" I pressed.

"Or any other guy that you would consider _tough_," she smirked, "But I've got to warn you that's not very hard going by your standards."

"Ha ha," I said, but we both fell silent as we reached the entrance to the lobby.

A few seconds into that semi-awkward silence Sam made a motion with her hand and tried to laugh a little. This time she _was_ faking it. "So you think you can make it this far? Or should I have Lewbert get you a stretcher?"

"Yeah, it probably wouldn't get here until May."

"Oh yeah," she said, "Did he ever get your guys' air conditioner fixed?"

"No," I said and smiled quietly. From experience I didn't think we could stall this out any longer, or should for that matter.

I pushed my back against the door, turning to face her.

I paused before I put my head down a little. "So … no more tough guys?"

"No more tough guys," she agreed. Then paused.

I made to say something but it died somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

"Listen," she made a little smile as she looked at me, "I'm … trying to think of the nicest way to say this. Because I mean it, I do," she hurriedly assured. She pursed her lips. "But I can take care of myself. So … don't worry, and leave me alone—" she laughed and then added quickly, "In a nice way! In a nice way …"

She hesitated like she was going to say something else, but instead leaned in quickly and touched her lips to mine before quickly pulling back and turning and walking away and—what just happened?

My bottom lip was throbbing more than it had been a second ago and—did she just kiss me? Again? Well, I suppose the first time had technically been my thing, but—did she just kiss me?

Unsteady. And happier. Happier than my present condition should've allowed.

I sighed. And then groaned.

Complicated didn't even begin to explain it.

"Oh, just leave me alone, Freddie," I mimicked as I tried to see where she had already disappeared, "I can take care of myself. _Really_."

Mixed signals didn't even begin to explain it.


	13. Chapter 12

"Listen, just point your little camera tech boy—"

--Sam Puckett

i'M Sick of Not Having a Plan

I stared at the computer screen. I narrowed my eyes a little, moved my head around—"Seriously! How is _anyone _supposed to read that? Is that an I? A one? An L?"

Amelia didn't look up from where she was laying on my bed with her homework, absently kicking her feet above her. "Are you still on that Internet verification thing?"

"Yes," I ground out sarcastically, "These things have to be the dumbest things ever—I mean, some of them are okay, but others—_like this one_—are just so ridiculously—" I tapped my finger on the keyboard. Because that was better than pounding on it.

"Why don't you just guess?" Amelia suggested, "And if it's wrong, redo the page?"

I sighed as I leaned my head on a fist and tried to look away, because I was half afraid that vague symbol of aggravation was going to be burned into my eyes. "No, I can't. When the page is refreshed they change the phrase to another one."

"Hmm. Maybe it will be an easier one then."

I turned around, not all that surprised she still wasn't looking up from her homework, and really not altogether surprised that she could be so … optimistic about something like this.

I went back to staring at it some more, the relentlessly vague mixture of pixels and shading, and my mind began to drift. To others things that weren't exactly good for my blood pressure either. Like the enormous spat this morning with my mother over laundry etiquette. Which in turn had led to some of my other recent mother-son difficulties, which had generously picked up ever since I had turned up at home looking like I'd been beat by a hoodlum or something.

Oh, yeah ...

And my mind continued right onto other stuff—

I didn't realize that I was touching at my lower lip until it started hurting. For a moment I put those particular fingers at my temple as I stared down at the keyboard, and then slammed them down on my desk.

"Fine. I'll try it. We'll just see which one it is," I said loudly, "If I can't make up my mind I'll just pick one and see. L or I?" I asked Amelia.

She was looking at me with an overtly worried expression. She softly said L.

"All right," I said and typed it in, "And … Great. Just great. Just bloody wonderful."

It wasn't like it was the end of the world, but the pounding in my temple made it feel close enough. I put my eyes down into my hand, and wasn't altogether surprised when I felt Amelia's careful arms come over my shoulders.

"It's okay," she whispered.

"I know," I said as I rubbed at my forehead. "I know. It's just … things are better now. You wouldn't believe how much better … but it still _feels _the same."

"Like what?" she asked as she gently rubbed at my shoulders.

That was a good question. Why was it so hard to recall all the vivid points of frustration when Amelia and calm, rational thought asked for them? And why were they able to become so juvenile so quickly when any kind of rational thought was applied after them?

Things were definitely better with Sam now. It was almost like before our blowup, only not with quite so much free time to be together, and not quite as much … carelessness as before. It seemed like everything in my life had lost that carelessness I hadn't even known it'd had.

I missed it.

"Well …" I tried, but thinking back to my mom readily popped up an answer, "You know how I told you before that my mom really likes you …" I glanced up and really did hate that scared look she got, "How I guess I always tell you that? But that she has these … kind of … reservations about us? Like I don't know. I can't explain it."

Amelia nodded in an encouraging way.

"I just …" My hand moved in the air with an unclear but animated manner. "It just makes me so _angry_. It's just completely wrong, and not fair. I know I—and I know she can't even necessarily help how she feels, but … it's not supposed to be like this. You know?"

The way that her hands were sitting on my shoulders confirmed that I didn't want to look up at her.

"It makes everything seem so messed up, and it's so easy to be ... angry. I know I shouldn't …"

She was abruptly moving around me, which kinda caught me off guard. She lowered herself into my lap and quietly looked down at me as her hand moved through my hair. It brushed lower to my cheek, but was wary to stay away from my split lip. One definite negative in getting pulped by Anthony had been that it'd guaranteed a cessation in any and all kissing activities from Amelia. Probably for quite a while.

She mustered an almost sad sort of smile. "Do you know why I said yes when you asked me out, Freddie?"

I found it kind of hard to breathe as I couldn't help all the unfavorable thoughts that my imagination could suddenly come up with for the direction of this conversation.

I shook my head.

"Well," she tilted her head a little and smiled at something as she brushed her fingertips over my eyes, "It wasn't just because you were really cute. Or … because I was afraid and didn't know anybody at school yet. It was because ... I thought you seemed like a really nice guy."

I nodded and looked down.

"And you are, you are, Freddie," she gently lifted my chin up, "But you've got all this … stuff that makes you crazy over things that … don't matter." She bit her lip and looked down.

I wanted to tell her that it wasn't always like this. That this wasn't the way I really was. But I didn't, for whatever reason. I just took in that soft feeling of her stroking my hair, of being so much more content than I had been in a long time.

Still, that didn't change the very real problem of my mom thinking that this wasn't the perfect girl for me. And how could that be with this sort of feeling, of the way her jeans and legs felt on mine, the way her little hands felt like they could make any problem go away?

There was another, restless feeling here though. That nagging that was becoming increasingly more distinct that this was nice, but how nice was nice?

But sheesh, how nice did it have to be?

And that brought my determination back around in this circle it had been relentlessly lapping for the past couple days, that there had to be a way to show my mom how things were. Make her understand.

Amelia, with a pretty smile and playful rubbing of my hair, stood up, perhaps thinking that everything was all better again.

But it wasn't. It was just a temporary solution, Amelia was just—

I swallowed as she walked back over to my bed and looked down at her schoolbook. Looking down at the floor, I wished it was possible to knock aside all these nagging little thoughts of inadequacy, thoughts that she somehow wasn't good enough in whatever little way that didn't matter. Or shouldn't matter, anyway.

Inadequacy ... the kind that brought an image of a smile to mind, one that wasn't Amelia's. And the excitement that went along with it, the kind that Amelia cast, but it was duller with her. I was thinking of the excitement that was crazy, uncontrollable, unpredictable. Of all those whimsical and completely far fetched scenarios that I had been indulging in so much lately, of dates I had never been on, of things I'd never seen or heard ...

I turned back to my computer monitor, where the new verification phrase was waiting alongside the bold red text asking if I was human.

_What if I did just … try it?_

The resolute no and forceful change of thought didn't come like it usually did. Like it usually did when this crazy idea cropped up … the one that was cropping up a lot more lately. The idea that wasn't just crazy because it involved a crazy person, or even the unsettling wrongness the thought usually brought.

And then suddenly that crazy thought connected with a plan that made it seem practically sane in comparison.

But that wouldn't work, couldn't work. Though it didn't—shouldn't matter if it could, because it would be wrong. Just plain, thoroughly wrong and manipulative and … it couldn't work, could it?

I was glad that Amelia wasn't looking at me, because I'm fairly positive that this excitement was showing, despite how hard my rational and arguably virtuous conscience was trying to hold it back.

"Are you …" I began. Geez, I even sounded excited. "Still going to be gone all next week?"

"Yeah," Amelia answered as she looked up, "Why?"

I opened my mouth to tell her, or at least begin to. But then I thought better of it—or at least tried to.

No, this was crazy. Not to mention very debatably dishonest.

"Why?" she repeated, perhaps a little more hesitant at my expression, or maybe my pause.

And then I found myself telling her, and making it sound almost plausible. Something that wasn't completely out of the realm of what a nice, upstanding boyfriend might suggest.

And I found her actually listening, despite the blatant uncertainty in her eyes, the uneasiness. Because she was Amelia, and I was her boyfriend.

--

It was crazy, it wouldn't work. I should just forget it right now. It was unethical ...

"Please, tell me it's unethical." My look was probably earnest.

Carly pursed her lips and just looked back at me.

_Uh oh._

Then again, she was always the one with the plans.

"Do you want me to?" she said with sort of a wince.

"No," I blurted. At least I was honest. "But I won't if it is ..."

"Why does it matter so much?" Carly crossed her arms. "I'm sure that your mom will change her mind. I'm mean we're talking about Amelia here, not Hitler."

"Carly," I rolled my head in annoyance, even though her line of thought had every right to be logical in a logical plane of reality, "It's not like we just starting dating yesterday. We've been going out for nearly _two months_."

Carly looked sort of helpless. "Listen, I'm really glad ... _so _happy that you and Sam are back to normal but ... this idea of yours doesn't even necessarily involve me. What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know," I threw up my hands as I stood up.

"You said that Amelia was ... all right with this?" Carly asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, I guess," I said as I thumbed at my studio laptop, "As long as I'm okay with it. I just ... am afraid to be, but I want to."

Carly nodded like she understood. She carefully lowered her head back down to the math book she had in her lap. "So ... what about the other one?"

I sighed. "Haven't asked her yet."

"Well," Carly said as she primly turned a page in her notebook, "Then my official verdict is that you need to talk to her. I haven't ... got much time for anything else."

I put my hands in my pockets and nodded. I made to leave.

"I—" Carly's voice came from behind me, "I am glad you asked me, though."

"Yeah," I said and gave her a tight smile.

--

Amelia ... Carly ... Who's next, who's next?

Oh, I knew who was next. But at the moment I was feeling more up to asking ... someone else really unaskable.

But I was a man, and we were friends again. What did I have to be scared—petrified—or anything like that of? So I told her—in a relentlessly roundabout way that was annoying even to me, but I did.

"So ..." Sam started slowly after I'd spilled the plan. We both sat there for a long, awkward year or so, with just the subdued sound of the Groovy Smoothie's other customers and the drizzle outside on the window. It was dark, and even darker outside.

Sam took a sip of the smoothie I'd bought her.

I figured that she was usually more docile around free food.

Not that she had been anything but "relatively" subdued around me since all the ... notable things that had happened last week. Relative being relative to Sam.

"Let me get this straight," she said as she clasped her hands together on the table and ticked off the facts, "Your mom, for some freak, unknown reason, doesn't think Amelia is the Disney princess of your dreams."

I nodded.

"You don't like this," Sam said as she continued to count off, "And Amelia's going to be gone for a week."

"Right."

"So you ... being the perfect little momma's boy that you are—"

I winced.

"Are going to tell her that things haven't been going so hot between you two lately and that you're both taking a break," Sam said, and then paused for a moment, "And you're going to tell her that you're dating me now."

It really did sound awful coming from her lips.

"And because you think I'm _such_ a charming person," she narrowed her eyes, "You assume that I'll go and show her what an awful girlfriend you could _actually_ have instead of Amelia, and your mother will completely change her mind and you'll have to rush to marry Amelia before your mom adopts her. Is that it?"

My mouth was moving around. "Not ... exactly. I don't _assume_ that you would make an awful girlfriend ..." I made sure to be looking away from her at this point, "I would just hope that you would make it look that way to her ... for me."

When I looked back at her I found that she was resolutely staring down at a spot on the table. Somehow that image, and the way this conversation was making the oxygen stick in my lungs, was exceptionally striking. It was impossible to not remember the way she'd acted back when we'd been sick together at my place. Impossible not to indulge in that suspicion at least a little ... that she could ever possibly like me like that. Ever want to.

She was still sitting there like that. I had to say something.

"But I won't. I won't do this if you have any problem with it ... it's just an idea," I said.

"Who said I had a problem with it?" she asked as she looked up a little angrily.

"You don't?" I asked quietly.

She pounded her fists on the table. "Yes, I have a problem with it! Why not some other girl—why not Carly?"

"Because my mom already thinks she's too perfect and—" I began.

"Oh, and I'm not?" Sam demanded.

_Awkward, awkward ..._

I sighed and tried to summon a way to make this sound reasonable. "Listen ... _if _I were to try this, I would need a friend that I know I could depend on, and two, someone who would be _willing_ to act like someone that my mom wouldn't approve of."

Sam looked like she was having a hard time choosing just which argument to use as she glared back at me. But then she looked like she just ... stopped.

I looked back at her as her eyes went back to the table.

Something like relief came about then, and I realized that I had kinda been hoping that she'd say no more than I'd thought.

I stared out the window as the rain temporarily picked up. We were sort of trapped in here, but I didn't mind so much. Aside from something with Amelia, I couldn't think of anything else I'd rather be doing. And even then—

But it was still quite a can of awkward sitting here, even with a smoothie in front of me.

It was about five minutes.

"What do I get out of it?"

"What?" I jerked my head back to her, half thinking I'd imagined it. "I—uh, hadn't thought about it."

Her lips twisted a bit.

"But—anything. Really," I said, "A big favor? Jerky sticks for a year? Anything. But ..." I stared back at her looking at me like that and ... the plan abruptly was really stupid. "Say no. I mean ... just forget I asked, okay? It was just a stupid idea."

"No it's not," she said quietly, "It's not like we've never done something like this before."

"No we haven't," I involuntarily protested more than what was probably appropriate.

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean. And we both know your mom; it'll work."

"Listen, I've changed my mind," I tried.

"Oh, no you haven't," she cut me off. "We're doing this. It's no bid deal, right? Just gotta get your mom to adore Amelia. Piece of cake." She kinda smirked. Kinda.

"All right," I said, sealing it, despite utterly wishing for the first time that I had never thought of this. For a lot of reasons. Because I was just now beginning to see how this could be like for Sam ... given some of the crazy and completely hypothetical conditions that were floating through my mind.

_Stop it. Sam doesn't like me like that. It's impossible._

_But she's doing this for me._

But really ... the biggest contributor to the feeling in the pit of my stomach was the notion, horribly reinforced by Sam's confidence, that this might actually work. And I might actually get what the plan was supposed to do. And ... I don't know.

When I blinked I found that the rain had tapered back off to a drizzle, and Sam was saying my name.

"Hey, earth to dork." She waved a hand in front of my face.

I turned my eyes back to her.

I had all these silly notions running through my head that I had to constantly put down, but ... But there were chances. Things that could happen with this and ... it would turn out, one way or another.

--

The weekend came and I said good bye to Amelia. She looked scared, but I reassured her until we could both laugh about it and then I made more than a few honest promises to myself.

Monday came. I was talking with Sam over at her locker about everything but tonight. Though I did drop an evasive sentence that let her know that everything was ready, and that I had already let my mom know that Amelia and I had decided to take a break—which was technically true since she was presently about half a dozen states away.

Sam didn't especially comment on that.

"So is this why you left?" A voice demanded from behind me. Anthony. "I thought you weren't interested in nerds."

I didn't have to turn to know that there were a couple of others with him, and that he wasn't altogether able to handle this situation as indifferently as he would like.

"Beat it, Clayton," Sam said, "And take a hint."

"Oh, I can take a hint," he said as he leaned forward, "You were the one giving me all sorts of hints. And not just that you wanted to be kissed."

"Yeah?" Sam intoned, unphased. "Well why don't you go and kiss someone that you can impress, Anthony, like one of your Barbies."

I was getting sort of antsy with my lack of participation in a conversation that I felt strongly involved me.

"Yeah," I started, "Why don't you just go kiss someone else that you can impress—"

One of the guys with Anthony smiled, and I looked around at the passing group that had gathered to find them holding equally amused, if not surprised looks.

"Not that I know what he kisses like—" I added quickly.

At that the proceeding lost most of its seriousness, and most of the attention broke up. Anthony looked more than a tad mad, but he merely shook his head in disgust and stalked away.

I carefully leaned against the lockers, and then looked at Sam, who had an equally emotionless expression. We were like that for a few seconds before both of our smiles cracked, and then we were laughing. Though beyond botched insults and more successful ones, it really wasn't a funny situation at all.

Suddenly I was looking forward to tonight. Who knew, maybe we could even have fun with this.

But then I remembered where we were going.

--


	14. Chapter 13

"Well, don't be. Just love Gibby, love him and never let him go."

--Sam Puckett

i'M Sick of No Progress

"Freddie?"

"Yeah?"

"You remember that big favor you promised?"

"Yeah."

"Well I want it now," Sam said as she adjusted her party hat, "Shoot me. Now. Please."

A toddler ran by our table, screaming something about bunnies at the top of whatever it was he had transplanted where vocal cords went on normal human beings. This might have been a noteworthy event, ordinarily at least out of the ordinary—if it hadn't been going on for the past half hour.

"What's that dear?" my mom asked Sam as she leaned in close to hear over the noise. Not only was there an unemployed (and rightfully so) chorus of small children in the Chuckie Cheese's theater area, but there was the show itself going on up front with all the franchise mascot characters dancing to the franchise theme song.

"You're not having fun?" I yelled back at Sam when my mom had went back to listening to the music. My mom periodically would see something and write it down in the notebook she was keeping of all the things she'd cite and threaten the establishment with once she got within arm's reach of a writing utensil at home. It really was something of a small miracle that they hadn't banned us yet.

Sam gave me the flattest glare in history. "Why is it I suspect you never brought Amelia here?"

I didn't hear her the first time and she had to repeat herself. I was having generally too much fun with this whole setup to be looking at her or taking her entirely seriously. "Because I love her!" I shouted back.

When I looked back I found her staring at me. With a stare I couldn't read.

I couldn't hear it, but I saw her let out a sigh and take another bite of her pizza as she pushed the party hat my mom had given her onto the table. After a few more seconds she glanced back up and found that I was still watching her.

I didn't like the way she had looked at that, but there was no way I was going to tell her now that "love" might've been at least a modest exaggeration. But then again, who knows?

The song ended and the decibels receded.

"Isn't this fun!" my mom shouted over the ringing in my ears, generally at Sam. I couldn't completely help my flash of annoyance at how unnecessary shouting of any sort was after all that.

"Tons of fun," Sam managed.

"What are you going to do now?" mom asked, still shouting a little.

The kid screaming about bunnies did his lap again.

I gave Sam a meaningful look. "I think we're going to go play some games now—"

"Oh, all right," my mom said as she straightened her stuff like she was going to stand up too, "That sounds like fun, let's play some games."

"Oh, no, no," I said quickly, and made what I hoped were subliminal sitting motions with my hands, "Not _those_ kind of games."

"Yeah," Sam quickly chimed in as she stood up with me, "And plus ... we kinda want to play ... alone ..." She frowned.

"Oh, okay," my mom said in an exaggerated voice as she nodded conspiratorially at me.

I'm not sure what my face looked like at that. Hopefully not as annoyed as I felt.

"_We want to play alone_?" I asked Sam as soon as we had turned the corner into the arcade games and all the sounds that went along with them.

"No, I want to throw up," she answered, "Where's the bathrooms?"

"You're the one who said it," I pointed out as a flock of screaming girls pushed between us. Reaching one of the basketball hoop stalls, I gestured at it. "Want to go for a round? I bet I can beat you."

"No," she growled impatiently, "I'm serious, I need to pee. Where are the bathrooms?"

"Oh," I said. Embarrassed didn't even begin to cover it. "This way."

As I led her in that direction, I heard her mutter under her breath that it figured that I would know where they were.

That comment didn't really begin to bother me until about half a minute later when I realized that a couple of the moms standing outside the _little_ girls room were sending me suspicious looks.

I decided that Sam could find me again on her own, so I left that somewhat awkward location and wandered through the game section. Though that wasn't to say that my visits here with my mom were ever exactly _un_-awkward. Especially since the majority of the patrons here averaged about half my height.

Somewhere between the arcade games and the tornado machine my mind went completely adrift, and I wondered how I had ever wound up in this situation. And exactly what situation that was formed a very distracting question. But it was there. I just had to stop avoiding it, skipping over it, distorting it ...

_Okay, self-huddle Freddie. Self-huddle._

Honesty. It was time for honesty.

There was a discernible chance that Sam liked me.

I found myself smiling hard. When I should be frowning. A lot. Because no matter how much and for whatever crazy reason I liked that idea (even if it did happen to turn out to be completely wrong), no matter how much and how stupidly happy it made me, I was still kinda dating Amelia. And obviously for good reason—_reasons,_ but ...

Not to mention that it _would_ be a terrible thing if it was true.

But I just couldn't stop thinking of the way she'd acted when we'd been sick together, or even the way she had acted towards me throughout our entire friendship, in her own way. And then that she had kissed me, not two weeks ago. Her. Sam Puckett. On the mouth. Of her own inclination. Me. Freddie—

Okay, I guess I'm still not completely over that yet.

They came again. The nagging doubts, the ones that reminded me how easy it would be to be wrong. Maybe it had just been a friendly kiss, the only way she could really show just how grateful she had been ... maybe ...

I was really getting tired of this see-sawing. I had to know. For sure. This was my chance, and I had to—_was_ going to find out before the week was up. How exactly, I had no idea, but I was going to.

I found myself playing at one of the game stalls where you rolled the ball up the ramp to the different holes marked with various points. I don't know what it's called exactly, but it was the staple game of this place. To me anyway.

Did I mention that my thoughts were all over the place? But in a drifty, non-committal sort of way.

Drifty enough that I had no idea how much time passed before I felt a nudge at my shoulder. I didn't bother glancing over at her, but did find that it was suddenly exceptionally hard to roll the ball as well as before.

"You're terrible," Sam said quietly as she watched.

I glanced over at her but didn't say anything. I only smiled a little and held out the ball to her.

She looked as though she was going to refuse, but then she looked at me, picked it up, and went on to totally decimate my score. At least the one she'd seen me get.

But I wasn't watching that.

She was here. With me. For me.

Friends? Maybe. Hopefully—because this would be an exceptionally bad situation to be in if she did like me. But how could she? She was Sam, I was Freddie. She lived to mock. Mock me.

But she mocked _me. _Differently. Or was it—

I mentally groaned, but didn't stop watching. Because it wasn't enough, it never was. I had seen her everyday for a considerable chunk of my life for the past however many years, but this incessant insistence that I _look_ at her was getting worse, and it was getting harder to keep it satisfied.

It was that infuriating magnetism again. Of the whole wanting to touch her. Anywhere. Like it was with Amelia, only numerous times worse. No doubt because it was wrong, practically forbidden. Her cheeks, hands, mouth, lips ...

No, it was impossible. She couldn't like me. It would only expound on how wrong things were if she did, how this stuff running through my head was just so ... not right.

But isn't that why I did this? _Am_ doing this? At least partly?

_Honest, Freddie. Be honest._

It was. I wanted my mom to like Amelia so much it made my head hurt, but there were also all these nagging little thoughts, fantasies. Involving Sam. Of me doing things that I would never be able to, and not just because they were _wrong._

_She's my friend, she's my friend, and this will pass. It has to._

She knew I was watching her, and occasionally the way her eyes moved betrayed that. But she saved the demanding expression until after she'd finished.

Instead of addressing that demanding expression, I quickly looked away from her for the first time in at least two solid minutes, at all the kids running around and the lights and noises.

"You know ... this place is like a kiddie version of Vegas," I commented. "I wonder how much of my allowance I've sank in here." I looked back at her. "You?"

She tried to keep her impatient look intact. "We never came here."

I nodded softly, realizing that had been a stupid thing to ask.

"So what's the plan, Freddie?" she asked, with a little insistence.

"Don't you have one?" I asked it in a way that let me look at her in the way I wanted to. Softly. Seriously.

"Not funny. You think I would like being dragged here for no reason?"

I smiled a little bit at how much I wanted to call her out on that.

"I have ideas ..." I conceded, giving a wave of my hand as I leaned back against the game stall, "Nothing great though."

"Freddie, I'm serious," she said angrily. "You think I'm here to play your dorky childhood games just for kicks?"

Sam stopped suddenly as we both caught sight of the little girl who was staring up at us with a lollipop in one hand. When we noticed her, she was on the verge, but it only took a second more before she broke into massive tears and ran away crying.

"Look what you did," I said as I watched her, and I was fairly serious.

"What? I didn't do anything," Sam said defensively, "How was I supposed to know that—"

"Her mom will probably call security," I murmured, this time saying it mostly just to antagonize her.

"Yeah, like this place has security," she answered, sounding angry.

"Actually, it does," I said quietly as I peered over the crowds of waist high heads just to make sure that no one was coming this way.

"That's it!" Sam half shouted, "I've had it with this whole thing—and it's not even six-thirty yet!"

"So you're quitting?" I demanded.

"I'm not quitting," she shot back, "Because there's nothing to quit! You don't even have a plan!"  
"The plan," I exaggerated my enunciation, "Is for you to act like a crazy 'girlfriend.' I don't have a script, I thought you would just improvise—"

"Oh, that's the whole deal, isn't it, Benson?" she said angrily. "You just keep assuming that I'm just so perfect as the horrible girlfriend. That I—I can just think of something and ruin the whole date just like that."

"What if I do?" I shot back, starting to get angry myself. Why couldn't anything ever just be easy with her?

"You know what?" she asked as she pushed the ball back into my chest. "Fine. I'll just be the horrible girlfriend, just for you so you and Amelia can live happily ever after."

"Thank you!" I exaggerated a bit as I threw my hand out. "I thought that was the whole plan."

"Fine," she bit out.

"Fine."

Then she was stepping past me. I had half a mind to ask her what she was doing, but I decided it would be better just to let her work.

"Hey, kid," Sam said shortly as she stopped in front of a chubby looking nine year old, "I need that balloon. Hand it over."

The kid, despite what common sense might dictate to someone possessing it, didn't look very intimidated as he took a bite of the melty chocolate bar he had in one hand. "No way, get your own."

"Listen," Sam said as she adopted a more subtle tone, "I heard that girls don't like guys who walk around with baby blue balloons and ..." she wrinkled her nose a bit in disgust, "Microwaved chocolate all over them."

"Yeah?" the boy scoffed. "And I heard that girls smell funny, like _you do_."

"That's it!" Sam shouted as she grabbed him by the collar and shook. "Give me the balloon!"

"No!" the boy shouted back as he clung to his balloon and chocolate bar in a way that might have been comical in any other situation. Like say ... a situation where children weren't suddenly crying all around us and there weren't abruptly parents in the vicinity with expressions. Very particular expressions.

"Sam ..." I grabbed at her shoulder and tried smiling at all the abruptly interested adults, "Calm down."

Sam adopted a likewise guilty smile as she became aware of the situation. "I'm calm, I'm calm," she said as she laughed a little. "Nothing going on her, just ... my little brother and me having a nice conversation—"

"I'm not—" the boy began to protest, but Sam shoved a hand over his mouth as the attention mostly dispersed.

"Shh!" she whispered at him once things had adequately settled down. "Now listen! We can make this so that it's profitable for both of us."

The boy quieted and allowed Sam to take her hand off of his mouth, but she looked at it in disgust and violently wiped it off on the front of his shirt.

"Hey!" the boy shouted as he pulled back. "I'll give it to you, but it'll cost you."

"What? How much?" Sam sighed as she reached into her pocket. "Fifty cents? How about an even buck?"

The boy scoffed at her again. "No way. One hundred tickets."

Sam rolled her eyes. "How about three bucks? Huh? Three bucks?"

"I said a _hundred tickets_," the boy said, like Sam was stupid.

"Listen, pork chop," Sam began shortly, "I'll give you five dollars for it. _Five dollars for a balloon. _As in _real money_, the green stuff that you can buy _real stuff_ with."

"Are you stupid?" the boy asked loudly. "A hundred tickets or _no balloon._"

"That's it!" Sam shouted, but this time I was ready for her and grabbed at her shoulders before she could attack him again.

"Sam!" I tried in a reasoning tone. "We can just get the tickets."

"Fine!" Sam threw my hands off. "Don't move, we'll be right back."

"Just hurry up!" the boy called after us as we walked away.

"Freddie, just make sure I don't actually kill one of these kids," Sam muttered as we stalked towards the ticket changer machine.

I laughed a little. "I thought that you-trying-to-strangle-him was going to end up being your plan."

"Nah," she said dismissively as she put her five dollars into the ticket machine, "I would've if your mom had been around. Just know Benson, I'm spending five whole—What the jank?" she shouted.

"What?" I asked her as she stared down in shock at the tickets that had come out. "Did you really think you could buy a hundred tickets for five bucks?"

"This is only twenty!" she exclaimed as she counted them. "That little punk wants _twenty-five dollars_ worth of tickets?" She looked back towards where he was waiting with another furious expression of hers, and I made sure to quickly put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"What's the big deal anyway?" I asked. "They don't sell balloons here, but why can't it be something else?"

"Because I'm going to get that balloon from that little marshmallow if it's the last thing I do," Sam said as she shot another glowering look at him. But then her eyes were searching around the game area.

"Why don't we just ask my mom for some money?" I asked her as I checked my wallet, "I've got twelve bucks, so we would only need—"

"Nah, I've got this," Sam said in a distracted voice, "What can we do with twenty tickets to get a hundred?"

"Uh, the tornado machine?" I said.

"Oh, one of those, I remember those." Sam dragged me over where the tornado machine was. "Great, the jackpot is one-fifty, more than enough. Maybe we can get you a nerd stick with the left overs."

"You mean a glow stick?" I asked her dubiously as she stepped up to one of the slots and carefully watched the light that was running around in a circuit.

"Whatever," she murmured. "I use to be good at these."

"I don't know," I muttered, "These things are about as fair as crane machines."

"Don't doubt my—" Sam frowned. "Light stopping skills."

We were quiet for a long moment.

"I appreciate this," I blurted, surprising myself. She looked up at me with a slightly surprised expression as well, and I couldn't contain just how ... that rare sort of expression from her made me—

"I really do," I said instead.

She nodded as she resolutely turned back to the machine and put in a few tickets. We both leaned in close as Sam let the lights by once, then twice, and then she tensed as she leaned forward and pressed the button and—

The game gave a wonk as the light stopped and flashed just one bulb outside of the little gate she was trying corral it in.

"Jank!" she shouted. She jerked her head up at the two little girls giggling at her from the opposite side of the machine. "All right, it's okay, just a couple more tickets and ..."

"Ham!" Sam yelled as she pounded on the plastic cover. "That is such a—"

"Sam," I intoned and nudged her as I eyed the attention we were drawing from the adults again.

"I got this, I got this!" she muttered as she put in another set of tickets. And another set, and another, and—

--

"And I just can't believe that they'd toss out loyal customers just like that—"

My mom was about five minutes into what I was forecasting to be at least a fifteen minute diatribe on the nerve of the establishment banning us.

This easily had to be the most awkward ride home from Chuckie Cheese's I'd ever experienced. Now I knew this had been in the works for years, literally, but even I hadn't expected—

"And there was absolutely no need for them to have security escort us out—" my mother was continuing.

Sam coughed a little into her hand.

"I _told_ you they had security," I muttered at her.

"I thought you were _kidding,_" Sam whispered back angrily.

"And I'm so sorry, Samantha," mom said as she looked back in the rear view mirror, "That your first time had to end like ... that ..." she paused, probably remembering that it _had _been Sam's fault, since she was kinda the one who had flipped out on the machine.

"Ah, don't worry about it," Sam said casually, and I could tell that she had slipped into the 'imperfect' girlfriend routine, "It was a lame place anyway."

My mom's mouth gaped a bit, before she nodded a little, probably more to herself than Sam as she looked back at the road.

Sam gave me a slightly downed look at that, but then shrugged her shoulders a bit. This was the whole point to the plan, after all. Sam couldn't start feeling too bad about cremating my mother's opinion of her now.

Then she was looking at me with her eyes, moving them around up front and then ... elsewhere, trying to tell me something.

I shrugged to show I wasn't getting her while checking to make sure my mom was still not looking.

Sam began making more exaggerated motions with her face in an annoyed way, as if she assumed that everyone should be perfectly able to understand her version of face speech.

I made an equally annoyed face back at her.

But then my mom was talking again about how this was a devastating event, even despite after suffering Sam's branding of the establishment with the L word. I guess I was a little sorry too. I mean, a lifetime ban does seem a tad bit ... permanent.

My mom also continued glancing back at us, so the face speech had to stop. We folded our hands in our laps and looked back at her, holding what were supposed to be expressions of rapt attention.

Sam began nudging me.

I nudged her back in an annoyed fashion. Then she did it again, only this time I could tell there was a complicated pattern to it. Like Sam thought I could comprehend nudge speech any more than I could face speech. She could be communicating the Declaration of Independence to me for all I could tell.

It began to get more heated, not to mention difficult as my mom almost caught us a couple times.

Sam's intentions were evidently to communicate whatever aspect of the plan she wanted me to do. My intentions, badly enough, were to touch her.

Honestly, it didn't start out like that. Honestly. But geez, this is the girl that, terrible as it is to admit, I'm at least marginally (and in the most minute amount that marginally can stand for) attracted to. Sitting right next to me, touching me way too much. And as admittedly fun—and a lot of other things, as this was, there was no way I could let my mom see us doing this.

Oh yeah, and there's no way we should be doing this in the first place.

Guilt hit, and I nudged Sam with a note of finality and sent a warning look at her. She looked exceptionally frustrated, but the nudging ceased.

Sam paused for a moment and then cleared her throat. "It _would've_ been nice if you could've at least stood up for me."

My mom looked back at her in surprise, which was the rough equivalent of what I was doing.

Sam gave me a bland expression, but raised her eyebrows almost imperceptibly.

"Oh, uh, I—" stuttered, "Didn't really want to ... get in that security guy's way ... he was kinda big ..."

"Yeah, well you could've at least tried," Sam pretended to look angry as she looked out the window, "My ex, Bubbie, would've at least tried to ..." She trailed off into a thoughtful pause. "Actually ... that may be why they put him away."

_Genius. Pure genius._

"Put him away where?" my mom asked in a watery sounding voice.

"The pen," Sam answered.

"The what?" my mom asked again.

"The jug?" Sam tried. "The digger? Crowbar hotel? Con college? Cooler?" Sam was starting to get exasperated at my mom's increasingly confused look, "_The joint_!"

"Oh ..." my mom sort of gasped, "You mean prison?"

"Yes!" Sam answered in a way I could tell wasn't entirely faked.

Pause.

"That's _really _interesting," I said in a way that sounded like I might be commenting on the merits of her rock collection, "But wait ..." I paused dramatically. "Wouldn't he go to juvenile hall?"

"Nah," Sam said casually, a small smile quirking at the side of her mouth at me for that, just for me, "They don't send forty-year olds to juvie." She let out a hammy sigh. "Yup, they've got him in for two nickels. But he promised he'd come back for me once he got out ... After he makes some across the border stops ..."

"Oh?" I asked again, same voice. It was getting harder to maintain an expression that was at least somewhat serious. "Is he going to Canada?"

"Nah, Mexico," Sam said as she picked at her fingers. Then she looked at me and slugged me hard enough that I didn't have to fake pain. "But that's why I asked you out, Benson. You've got class. That place was lame, but any dude who spends that kind of money on a chick like me is all right."

My mom's watery smile looked like it was on the verge of melting. "You asked _him_?"

"Sure," Sam continued, "I knew that he would make a great date when he loaned me ten bucks the other—Wait! Stop the car!"

"What? Why? Why?" My mom looked fairly terrified.

"Just drop me off here," Sam said as she unbuckled her seatbelt, "I'd have you bring me up to my place, but uncle Jim is back with us, and he ... doesn't trust strangers. Bye Benson, just pick a better place next time, 'kay?" She climbed out onto the corner, but then turned back for a moment. "Oh ... and it would probably be a good thing if you didn't let any ... law enforcement officials know about uncle Jim. Anyway, text ya later!"

And then she was gone, with only a brief flash of distinctly unsatisfied eyes for me.

We both kind of stared for a long minute, watching her go, with the door open and the car idling.

It was something of a daze in which I scrambled between the seats up into the passenger side. My mom didn't even berate me for that.

But I didn't look at her either, because I was too busy watching Sam reaching the far corner of the block. She was walking kind of slowly.

"Isn't she great?" I breathed. Then frowned. I felt compelled to add the fake sigh because ...the sentence before hadn't felt fake.

I looked over at mom, and she tried to smile. Really, really tried.

"Yes, dear," she managed weakly. "She uh, seemed a lot ... different tonight."

"Oh," I waved that off as if it was nothing, "She's always like this ... only tonight I think she was actually better. Yeah, _lots_ better, because I think she was trying to impress you."

"Oh?" my mom managed.

I twittered my fingers in my lap as we started off again. My mom was resolutely staring ahead of us with a confused expression. I was tempted to sigh again.

"So ..." I started, but found myself lacking in conversation starters. Or end points, really.

My mom was resolutely looking down at the speedometer now.

"Too bad that Amelia's going to be gone for a whole week, huh?" I tried. And it wasn't a totally blatant topic with aims of manipulation, because I really was missing her. It just had been incredibly easy to misplace that with all this Sam excitement.

"Yes," my mom answered carefully, "You never did say exactly what happened ... it seemed rather sudden ..."

"Yeah," I said as I rubbed at a spot on my khakis, "I ... don't really want to talk about it yet. But it is kind of ... too bad, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," my mom answered quickly, "She really is a nice girl, Freddie. I don't think she's exactly the one for you, but I'd hate to see anything happen to the poor little thing."

I felt my hands involuntarily wring themselves. _Poor little thing._

"It didn't upset her terribly, did it?" my mom asked.

"Oh, a little," I answered in a noncommittal tone, not even wanting to think about how Amelia would actually react if that did ever happen. But ... that brought up the disturbing notion that I was somehow and irrevocably locked into Amelia until ... death or something. Or something equally disturbing like that.

_Focus Freddie, focus. Stick to the plan._

"But you haven't ..." I hesitated, "Changed your mind about her, even a little? I mean, it _probably_ doesn't matter now, but hasn't anything ..."

My mom was giving me a not-exactly-understanding look.

"Like anything _recent_," I pressed on, "Even changed ... a little?"

"I don't think so," my mom didn't sound too sure, "I'm not sure exactly what you mean, Freddie."

"Nothing," I muttered, "Never mind."

She gave me another look, but this time it was more ... pained. Like she was afraid that she was missing out on something important I was trying to tell her. And she was. It was just that ... she didn't have to get so worried about it.

"I'm sorry about this afternoon," I murmured as I toyed at my khakis again, which had constituted a small portion of today's spat over the wardrobe I would be carrying for this date. Or at least it would've been a wardrobe if I had bended in to even a fraction of all the crazy things she'd been pressing me for. But ... I guess it didn't really matter now. Or maybe it hadn't even mattered then.

"This afternoon?" my mom said casually, like she was able to pretend that she didn't even know what I was talking about, or that it hadn't really mattered to her.

I nodded a little.

"Oh, don't worry about it, sweetie."

It was an awkward and relatively silent ride back home, but ... it could've been worse.


	15. Chapter 14

"I know how to get your mom to jump out of the plane."

--Sam Puckett

i'M Sick of My Plans

Until my dying day I will probably equate that week with running. Even though very little physical running was actually involved, that's essentially what things amounted to. What it felt like.

"All right, so we'll try that after the straw spraying bit," Sam said as we hurried towards our Lit. class, "How does she react to sticky hands?"

"I think she has stocks in soap companies," I answered as we made it inside our classroom just on the bell.

"Right, dumb question," Sam said as we found our seats, "What about flowers? How does she think a guy should handle them?"

I thought for a moment. "Traditionally, though I think we might be better off trying chocolates."

"Um," she nodded as she looked over our rapidly filling notebook of good intentions—eventual good intentions. Because this really was all for my mom's sake. "Maybe, though I think we need to work more on the whole me not respecting you angle more, and not just because it's so fun—"

"But we still need to do either the flowers or chocolates routine, my mom will be expecting it—" I progressively turned my protest into a whisper as class quieted down and our teacher began speaking—but broke off completely when she pointedly cleared her throated and pointed a rather pointed glare at me. I offered a guilty smile and sank back into my seat.

But once class was safely underway and enough time had passed for an appropriate amount of deviousness to be devised, Sam nonchalantly tossed a wadded ball of paper onto my desk.

I did my best to nonchalantly sink down in my seat and glance around to make sure no one was watching before I read it. But there wasn't, and Sam looked distinctly amused at my attempt.

"_How about you give me chocolates--I'll tell you their the wrong kind, insult you, and then eat them in front of you and your mom for the rest of the date?"_

I casually chucked an affirmative back at her; my reply also pointing out that she'd misspelled 'they're.'

We preoccupied the rest of class with some distinctly non-Lit. related planning. Almost unconsciously I used codenames for everything I happened to write down that dealt with our operation. Some of which I honestly thought were rather creative, but Sam promptly called me a dork for it after class regardless, as well as for trying to correct the worst of her grammar.

Regardless, I was having almost guilt-inducing amounts of fun whenever I actually had a chance to stop and realize that I was.

I would've never—repeat, never, realized just how much time I had been spending with Amelia until Sam abruptly occupied most of it. Even if only temporarily.

"So," Sam asked me as she zipped up her sweatshirt, "Is your mom picking you—us up?"

"Nah," I said as we walked through the doors and out onto the sidewalk, "I told her we'd just walk home. I figured that would give us some more time."

"Yeah …"

I glanced over at her, but she was staring at the ground.

"So … anyway," she started, "What does she think of this whole thing … besides about Amelia?"

I discerned a delicate topic.

"Well … I think she was a little surprised about the whole Chuckie Cheese's thing and … but I still don't think she minds the idea of us for … whatever reason." I frowned. True, my mom had always had a surprising tendency to overlook my … unique relationship with Sam, but I'd always chalked that up to general obliviousness. No offense mom. And it wasn't as if Sam _tried_ to do her worst in front of her, and it definitely wasn't as if I had ever leaked the whole picture to my mom. For the most part anyway.

"I think she …" I put out my hands uncertainly, "Kinda thinks you're okay."

Sam was quiet for a moment. She looked up at me with a quick, reassuring smile that was probably supposed to be a lot of things, but it missed a few of them. "So far."

"Yeah, so far," I laughed along with her, but then we fell silent.

"But don't worry," Sam abruptly spoke up again, "We'll have her thinking 'Princess' is the best thing since frozen pizza by the end of the week."

I smirked at her use of my name for Amelia. "So you _do_ like my codenames."

She gave a practiced roll of her eyes. "Yes, I love it when you talk like such a man."

--

The evening went well. So well in fact that in any other situation, with any other logical mother our plan should've worked long before Sam pulled the spraying straw bit at the dinner table. But despite significantly reinforcing my mom's apprehensions about just what kind of table manners Sam possessed, among other things, she seemed to still hold onto some kind of infuriating something that was positive in regards to Sam. Or at least as opposed to Amelia.

And the evening was kind of a two-for in regards to things going well, because we were not only executing the plan brilliantly, we were having fun. Way too much fun. Not necessarily in trying to manipulate my mom—but just in general.

--

Back to the whole running thing. I talked my mom into driving us both to the Comic Con Convention that was happening downtown the next evening after school. My mom was probably feeling this running thing as well, since it would be obvious even to a hobo jumped up on caffeinated fladoodles that I was trying to jam in as many as dates as possible with Sam before the week was up. And Amelia would be back.

"Freddie, I'm getting tired of you picking where to go," Sam said as she blew out a breath of annoyed air.

"What?" I asked innocently, "I thought this was the whole plan—put you in situations where you can do your worst."

"No kidding," Sam muttered as she looked around the milling, admittedly somewhat odor-liberal crowds of comic book fans. For the most part they were rushing to get to all the tables before the convention closed for the night. For the most part Sam looked disgusted.

"All right, all right," I admitted as we vaguely weaved our way through the outer edges of the crowd, "You can pick where we go tomorrow night."

Sam slowed a little and gave me an entirely too satisfied look for me to remain entirely comfortable.

"Great," she said, "That'll let me do a good job of showing some more 'imperfect' sides of me."

I tried not to smile a little along with her. "But that's not why you're smiling."

"Sometimes you're so quick," Sam rolled her eyes, but in a generally good-natured way, and I laughed a little along with her.

"So ..." I said as I resisted the urge to look behind us where my mom still presumably was, "Is she watching us?"

Sam turned and looked. I grabbed at her before I remembered that 'negative and unsubtle' were what we were aiming for with Sam.

"Yup," she answered.

I sighed. "I don't know." I scratched at my neck and wished that I could check for myself, "Do you think that she's really buying us as a couple?"

"You're the one who lives with her," Sam said in an exasperated voice, "Don't ask me."

"No," I tried, wishing I could express this persistent fear I was carrying, express it in a way that was acceptable to Sam standards, "I mean ... I don't know. I just don't feel like we're doing the stuff that normal couples would at this stage—"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked as we stopped.

She knew what I meant. And I knew what I meant. And it was honestly for honest reasons that I even had the nerve to go here, to try to appease this terrified notion of what might happen if this thing blew up in our faces. If my mom caught onto things.

But then again, just like this whole fiasco, there were other ... smaller reasons as well—

I shrugged my shoulders when I wasn't able to verbally communicate just what I meant to her.

"What?" she asked, a little less assertively, "Like ... stuff people do on second dates ... like holding hands?"

"Like holding hands," I rushed the repetition, to try to diffuse the situation with a little bit of humor. It kinda worked. "I ..."

Sam looked off to the side and we both sort of fiddled. With our hands.

I supremely regretted going here. Supremely. Utterly. Utterly supremely. Because nothing was worth this kind of squirmy, uncomfortable, completely awkward-I-wanna-run-away-and-hide-in-a-foreign-country-for-a-few-weeks feeling. Nothing. Not even—

She didn't nod. Didn't say yes, hold out her hand, or even make a distinctive facial expression. But the way she sort of looked down and then back up at me was more than enough for me to understand.

It was a non-verbal, "Okay."

This was ... unreal. And shaky, oh so shaky.

I couldn't—it was unnecessary, but ... I was going to. I knew that I was going to long before all the arguments in my head added to the moment's abrupt anxiety.

I ... hesitantly? Sort of slowly?—put my hand out and pulled hers into mine. And for a brief second we just stood there, until the notion that walking would make things less—whatever came to me.

But long before we started walking again, much slower than before, there was all this stuff that I knew, felt, had to deal with.

Her hand was so small, or at least small compared to the sorts of activities I normally associated with them. Like punching, for instance. In that way they always completely defied expectations, that they could actually be borderline slight, within distant view of adjectives like delicate. And warm. And soft. And able to make everything feel so comfortable. Crazy, and anxious beyond belief, but comfortable.

I did almost laugh though, when I happened to summon enough courage to look back over at her to find that she was looking in the complete opposite direction of me as we walked, much like I had been doing.

But even noteworthy feelings of comfortable couldn't keep the arguments at bay. The notables included that Sam was my friend, that this was unnecessary, and that I was again definitely sending the wrong signals. The other was Amelia.

Amelia trusted me. And she didn't deserve this.

Maybe she was having similar thoughts at about this time, or maybe Sam just picked up on my waverings, because we both let go at about relatively the same time.

This is the part where a fake cough would've fit nicely. But we just kept walking, more or less. With my face and neck burning. Not looking at each—

"Hey! Hey, you! Are you the model for Rope Girl?"

We both turned. There was a kid about our age. A kid that probably could've only projected more nerd by having cosplayed—come dressed up as a comic book character that is.

And yes. I do realize what kind of case that builds for me that I know what that is.

"Uh ..." Sam started, looking genuinely caught off guard. With a practically lost expression on her face as she looked back at me.

It would've been a gratifying thought any other time that I or something I did could ever do that to her.

"No, she isn't," I replied shortly, "Beat it, pal."

"Really?" the boy said in a voice that hadn't changed a degree from the breathless tone he'd started with. "I could've sworn that you were her, you look just like her! I could've sworn. Darn. Heh heh, could've sworn. Get it?" And then he let out a laugh that could not be described with words.

"Yes, that's so great," I said as I took a hold of Sam's elbow and attempted to steer her away.

"Exactly!" the boy exclaimed, like he thought that I was on his side. "You look just like her! Would you mind if you came over to the Rope Girl table and took a picture with me, I have a first edition—"

"Yes, we do mind," I snapped, seeing my progress with moving Sam in another direction remaining negligible.

"Well actually—" Sam began in a voice that I normally wouldn't associate with Sam.

"We were just leaving—" I tried.

"Actually, _dear_," Sam intoned as she drug me to a halt, much to nerd-boy's marginally hidden delight, "I think this sounds like a lot of fun. Would you excuse me for a minute?"

I shot a venomous glare at the other kid, who was just entirely too close in all senses of the word irritating for me to completely take in stride. I pulled Sam around for a moment and whispered at her.

"What are you talking about?"

"Listen," Sam began, sounding almost ... reasonable. Like she wanted to convince me that— "This is great! The absolute worst thing that a girl can do on a date is pay attention to another guy and—"

But she was definitely not looking at me. As she rambled on with all her reasonableness, she kept her eyes intent on a spot on the floor between us.

"What?" I demanded, not really feeling up to reasonable reasons and/or reasoning. "Forget it, we're not—"

"Hey," she intoned, "This is a great way to get 'Princess' to—"

"Don't use those stupid codenames!"

"They're your stupid codenames—"

"You're not going to—"

But Sam was already turning away and smiling sweetly. "Which way is it to the Rope Girl table ..." she paused for his name.

"It's Albert," the boy quickly supplied.

"I would've never guessed," Sam said in a giddy sounding sarcastic. As she sauntered away with Albert she looked over her shoulder and sent me a smirk. But her smirk sort of lost its satisfaction at my look, or maybe just looking at me, and she pulled it away quickly.

Trying to navigate my way back to my mom proved to be exceptionally difficult while simultaneously trying to watch Sam and her new friend.

It was ... really not fun. Kind of anger inducing actually. To watch Albert the Nerd all over her, if only in giddiness as he took her picture at the table and continued talking about who knew what. Maybe the fact that Sam had attractive qualities, or that she was just plain attractive, or that she was ... _standing over there with a complete_—

"Who's Sam talking with, dear?" my mom's voice was abruptly at my side, startling me out of vaguely murderous thoughts.

"I don't know," I replied sarcastically. Geez, I even sounded violent.

"Well, she seems to be ..." my mom hesitantly went on about whatever her interpretation of the situation was. Not that it mattered, but ... oh. Yeah. I guess it kinda did.

But I was distracted enough not to catch the specifics. Because the occasional but fairly consistent glances that Sam was sending me were extraordinarily distracting.

And not only because they were so—sober.

--

It was Thursday. Evening.

Sometimes brilliant was scary. Most of the time Sam's brilliant was terrifying. Right now it was a lot of both.

"Freddie!" my mom gasped as she pulled me close, "Just don't touch anything! Anything! If you have to go to the bathroom, call me right—"

"Mom!" I protested, trying to pull away from her. But standing outside of the pool hall that we were, I could see at least a bit of where she was coming from.

"Ah, don't worry, Mrs. B," Sam said in her overly confident girlfriend tone, "We'll be fine."

The door to the pool hall briefly opened as someone exited, and a sheet of hazy air followed.

"But the atmosphere—" my mom tried.

I wasn't quite sure just which definition of atmosphere she was referring to.

"Well, bye!" Sam said as she grabbed and dragged me towards the entrance before my mom could regather her wits, come to her scattered senses, and refuse to let us go in.

My mom shouted something about time. And cockroaches.

Who knows? Maybe all these years of iCarly and Sam—well, mostly Sam, were taking a bit of my mom's edge off. Or maybe the universe just hated me.

We went through the door into where it was dark and even hazier, and it definitely smelled like it. While I was standing there awkwardly, waiting for my eyes to adjust, Sam heaved out a sigh.

"I guess that's it." From what I could make out she looked glum. "If your mom will let you come in here, there's no changing her crazy, made up mind."

"Yeah," I agreed in a somewhat subdued voice as I began to make out what we were in. There were about a dozen pool tables set up, with a handful of older guys scattered around them. And a notable number of them were staring at us—at me.

"Freddie?" she said in the low, admitting kind of voice I rarely ever heard her use, "I'm out of ideas. This was about the best one."

"Couldn't imagine that," I gave a high little laugh that would've been embarrassing when I was in elementary. I topped it off with an equally pathetic cough. "So ... since my mom's already left, I guess we can get going to go somewhere else—"

Sam grabbed a hold of my shirt and dragged me forward. "Come on."

"But Sam—do we—"

"Yes," she answered as she marched us to a pool table roughly in the middle of the premises. "Quarters?"

I jerked my head back from where I had been staring at the large, biker-type looking guy who was looking me like I was a particularly tasty looking specimen of ground chuck. "Uh ... what? Oh, yeah. Right. Quarters."

Halfway through my withdrawal of the proper amount of change and trying to lean over and put it in the extraordinarily greasy coin slot, I noticed the look that Sam was wearing.

"You're doing this on purpose," I hissed as I pushed the slot in and the balls noisily dropped down. "To get me back for taking you to the convention yesterday!"

She had a bland smirk on her face as she casually leaned against the table. "Maybe." She paused, trying to adopt an innocent tone. "And maybe I just wanted to show you where I've been hanging out a lot lately."

I glared at her, not only because she dared to indirectly reference our previous period of mild misunderstandings, but because it was better than seeing if the other patrons were still watching us. Her expression of mild enjoyment didn't change. In fact she went right on ignoring my look entirely and inclined a nod towards where the pool balls were waiting.

Oh. Right. The balls.

See, from my experience of arcade games, knowing how to insert change was easy. But after that my experience with pool as a game tapered off pretty dramatically.

Whether or not Sam knew just how dramatically, she looked to be having a great time watching me clumsily pull the balls from the slot and onto the table, where they had an irritating tendency to roll, some even back into the hole nearest me. Hey, cut me some slack. Not only was I doing this under Sam's scrutiny, which I knew was just waiting to pounce on the fact that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing (while I needed to prove to her that I _did_ know what I was doing—even though I didn't)—I couldn't completely help from frequently glancing at all the rather sociable looking people looking at us from a few tables down.

Seriously, these were the kids of guys they cast as extras in thug movies. The kind that never grew out of playing cops and robbers. The kind that—

"Okay. There," I declared almost triumphantly as I succeeded in getting all the balls onto the table and immobile.

Sam smiled along with me, and then inclined her head again in a way that indicated I should continue.

I blew out a breath of annoyed air. Why did losing to her always have to be such a ridiculously big deal?

"Okay," I sighed, "I'll admit it. I have no idea how to play pool."

"_Really_?" Sam asked in an overly exaggerated way. "No way!"

"Yeah, yeah," I replied impatiently, "Can we get on with this then?"

Sam put a hand to her mouth, "But if you don't know how to play, how can we—"

"All right, all right!" I threw up my hands. "Will you teach me?"

"Teach you ...?"

"Will you teach me how to play pool, please?" I amended with a little bit of irritability. Only a little bit.

"And why would you want to learn from me ...?" Sam trailed off again.

"Because you know how?" I gritted through my teeth as she gave me a look that clearly said that wasn't going to cut it. "Because you're good at it? Because you're talented at delinquent pastimes?" I groaned. "Because you're queen of the universe?"

Sam was examining something on her hand in an unworried fashion. "Keep going."

I gaped a little at that. "Because ... you're exceptionally smart and ... uh, a good friend to be helping me with this and, um ..."

She looked up at me.

I was running out of safe adjectives. "And because you're cool … fun to be around ... exciting ..."

She raised her eyebrows.

I probably should've stopped.

"Beautiful? ..."

I'm not really accountable for what I was doing for the next several seconds, but I surmise it consisted of staring back at Sam's stare. Which was a lot of things. At least mildly surprised—_as it very well should be_. For crying out loud, what had I just said?

Her mouth was open a little, and her eyes were all—ugh.

_God. This is Freddie. Just checking in. And requesting a heart attack._

Sam dropped her eyes to the pool table, her fingers slowly moving over it.

_I'm not picky though. I'd settle for a stroke. Just anything quick. Pain is not an issue._

But then Sam was looking away completely as she quickly moved away.

_Oh, God—she's leaving._

So it was something akin to joy—boundless relief when I realized that she was only going to the rack with the pool sticks. As my heart fought to return to something resembling a consistent rhythm, I began to suspect that I had almost granted my own request.

Sam returned with two pool sticks in hand, still resolutely not looking at me. All business. Shoving one into my hands as she passed by, she briskly pulled out a plastic triangle thing from the table, herded all the pool balls into it, and then deftly arranged them.

She pulled the triangle away from the neat wedge she'd ordered and finally looked at me again as she moved to the far end of the table. Looked at me like nothing life changing had just been uttered. "Break?"

I felt a little bit of panic—as in added to what I was already feeling. And given me, it probably showed. A lot.

"I'll break," she answered herself as she leaned over and positioned the white ball in front of the other balls. And then she concentrated for a moment with the stick in front of it before hitting it with a crack into all the others, and then they were moving all over the place— "Now the object of the game is to get all of your balls into the holes before the other person does."

I opened my mouth, but decided to pass on the sarcastic comment that had sprung to mind. I felt like staying low for a while conversationally speaking.

For reasons that were even more obvious than the objective of pool.

The balls began to slow down, and one fell into one of the corner holes.

"That means I'm stripes," Sam said as she walked around to a clump of balls, concentrated with another shot, and slammed another ball into a hole. She moved around and then repeated the process with another—

"Hey," I broke my laying low thing to break in a little hastily, "Aren't you going to ... take it easy on me or anything?"

Sam didn't look up from where she was arranging another shot, "Nah."

A moment passed and she looked up at me again, and then sighed. She gave a token nudge of the white ball as she straightened up. "Oh, look. Darn, I missed. You're up."

"Oh," I said as I made to move, though I didn't know exactly where to. "You said you were ... stripes ..."

"Yeah," Sam answered and pointed to one of the balls, "That means you're solids. One of _these_."

"So that means I have to put those kind ... into the holes ..."

Sam laughed at that. And I—watched it.

I grimaced as I broke out of observing that … distracting event and marched over to where the white ball was relatively lined up with the ball that she had pointed out. Taking a breath, I leaned over and tried to mimic what I'd seen her and all those gangsters in the movies do—

"Whoa," Sam said as she grabbed my shoulder and repositioned my vector, "Better not go for that one, killer. Unless you want to put three of mine in. See that brown one in the corner?"

"Yeah," I said a little thickly, my manly pride being snapped back to attention at the way she was pulling me around, stupid confessions of beauty or not.

"There's the one you should go for," Sam said, "She may not be the prettiest of the bunch, but she's all alone in the corner there—with virtually no other balls around—and no chance that anything else is going to get in the way—So even a dork like you has a chance."

I looked up at her calmly, even though my head wasn't exactly in anything resembling a calm state at that particular moment. I was kinda terrified that she might be trying to talk about herself. But the way her expression balked a little at that confirmed she wasn't—it was just a really poor choice of metaphors to use after ... some of the admissions of a minute ago.

"All right," I murmured as I got back down into my position with the new ball lined up, getting ready to—

"Ugh, what are you going to do? Downhill ski?" Sam asked in exasperation.

"No—"I started defensively, beginning to get annoyed despite myself.

"Here," Sam said as she took two handfuls of my shirt and forcefully rearranged my stance, pulling me up a bit and back around, and—

"I got this, I got this," I growled as I tried to push her away. I was beginning to feel like I was running out of oxygen with her so close, pulling and prodding and—well, not that there was a lot of oxygen in this place to begin with.

Sam stepped away, almost indignantly, and crossed her arms. "This I've gotta see."

Shooting her a challenging look, I went back to setting up my shot—and trying not to conform too closely to the way she'd arranged me. Taking in a deep breath, I slid the stick ... thingy over my hand like I had seen her do, only it didn't seem to be working so well, and it was actually kind of catching on my hand—

"Is this going to happen _before_ my grandmother gets another divorce?" Sam groaned.

It was her fault. Entirely.

In something of a response to that comment I pressed against my less convinced notions and pressed the pool stick forward—into the bottom of the white ball—and on through the green material stuff that made up the table cover—

Producing an all too audible ripping sound—

My head involuntarily jerked back to Sam, and I made a sort of embarrassing noise in the back of my throat as I straightened up too quickly and then looked back over at the burly chaps that weren't fifteen feet away—

"Move," Sam muttered through clenched teeth as she pushed me to the side.

I wasn't exactly sure what she wanted me to do until I realized that she'd pushed me to stand between the rip and the other customers. I couldn't see, but I could tell she was leaning over the table behind me, probably examining it.

At the way I was standing straighter than my pool stick, not to mention how I was looking at them, it really wasn't all that surprising that a couple of the guys a few tables down stopped to look at me. I made a sort of jerky wave at them and an attempt at a smile.

"Hi."

They said something low to each other that I couldn't catch.

"Sam!" I whispered out of the corner of my mouth as I tried to keep my mostly calm and friendly expression directed towards them. "Hey!" I almost turned around when I felt her hands reaching down my pockets.

"Where's your gum?" she asked, like I was stupid for being surprised that she would put her hands down my pockets. To clarify—the pockets that were against my legs, that were—

But then she evidently found my packet of gum because she promptly withdrew her hands.

I heard her take a piece out of the wrapper. After a few more agonizing moments of standing there, somewhere within the bounds of feeling like I actually wanted to use this place's bathroom, despite all the sound advice my mom had given me, Sam finished.

"Good as new," Sam was saying as she was already moving around the table to her next shot.

I stared where I could still see the line of the tear. I mean it wasn't _that_ bad.

"It's still there," I murmured as I gingerly reached out and touched—

"Don't!" Sam 'tapped' my hand with her pool stick. 'Tapped.' "It's fine. A little bumpy—but it's not as if it's going to throw off your game."

I looked at her as I pulled my hand back, but didn't say anything. It should've been a serious time, after all that. Should've been. Still, it was hard to keep from smiling.

--

"Oh, please, coming from the one who cuts her toenails _in the living room_—"

"What, does that bother you? It's not my fault if Mr. Clean is your only guy friend."

It was getting later. There were more people, and consequently more voices and music now so that we had to half shout at each other over the pool table to hear.

"Oh, that's _really_ mature," I shot back.

"I'd _really_ like to soak your shorts in backwash," Sam answered sarcastically.

How did this start? There had been a good reason for it, right? Or—That was it. I remember now.

Since I was getting _so_ good at this game _so_ fast—note the sarcasm—I was still having trouble with missing whenever I tried to hit the white ... er, cue ball. The last time I'd done it, Sam had said that I'd scratched. I'd protested. We'd eventually wound up here. Somehow.

I asked her something about why anyone would want to do ... anything like that, mostly to stall. To plan my next move. After all, these sorts of arguments weren't as simple as they might seem. There was a definite, ridiculously complex structure, a definite list of do's and don't's, and a rigid guide when to do those do's and don't's. And it was ours.

How to proceed, how to proceed ...

As tempting as it was, skipping a few lines down to matters regarding her butt wouldn't be in very good taste—not yet, anyway. I'd already covered her appetite and the disgusting habit I'd been itching to bring up for a while now, so that left either something to do with her lack of initiative in ... most anything really, or something to do with ... her ...

Decisions, decisions—

There were abruptly two meaty hands resting on my shoulders. And not even merely meaty, but _beefy_. I looked to the left, then the right, finding two sets of knuckles on either side of my head with the words BREK NECK written on them. 'Words.'

My heart was suddenly pounding staccatos. Very fast staccatos.

I intuited someone very large behind me, and not just from the way that Sam was suddenly looking up at something above my head. I confirmed this when I craned my head back and found a very large, very bald man staring down at me with a discernibly angry countenance.

"Is this fella giving you a hard time, little lady?" the man asked in a lovely baritone.

My throat made gaping sounds. "Oh, no, no—" I managed. In a voice that wasn't giddy at all—at least relative to the situation.

"Well, actually—" Sam said.

"Nope, no hard times being given here," I broke in, "We are completely hard time-less. We're just, uh, playing some pool and—"

"I didn't ask you," the man said in a low tone.

My mouth made a clicking sound as it shut. I looked over to where Sam was wearing a faintly amused expression.

That didn't help my chances at avoiding a heart attack much.

"Well, actually," Sam began again, "He has been."

_Massive _heart attack.

"Is that so?" The man looked down into my face. He was close enough that I could detect several distinct differences he had with Mr. Clean, even though he bore a striking similarity to him appearance-wise.

I gave Sam probably the most pleading look of my life.

At least my knees hadn't given out yet.

"Yeah," Sam went on casually, "He started following me on the way here and I haven't been able to get rid of him since."

--

Sam was still laughing.

I was still more or less calmly expressing my feelings on the matter.

"I can't believe you did that! _Why_ would you do that?"

"Your face—" Sam barely managed as she clutched at her side.

"Ha ha, yes, it's just so hilarious," I went on, "Five minutes of that and then, oh yeah, by the way Freddie, this is my cousin Horatio. I wanted you to meet him."

Sam burst into fresh laughter. Because it was just oh so funny.

I looked over at her and couldn't help but break a little at that sight, even though I was still quivering more than I'd like to admit.

Sam wiped at her eyes. "It doesn't get much better than that."

"Yeah right," I answered.

"Oh, come on, he was nice to you," Sam said, and then raised her eyebrows, "Nicer than I told him he to be. He even helped show you how to play better."

"I thought that was your job."

Her face grew dramatic. "I'm not a miracle worker."

"So are you good?" I asked. "Was that enough to repay me for taking you to a nerd convention?"

She gave me a considering expression. "We'll see." But then she grew serious. "But I guess that's kind of it. It is uh, too bad that this whole thing didn't work out. I'm … sorry it didn't work out."

I nodded and looked at the ground.

And we kept talking. About stuff. Stuff that didn't pertain to dates or moms or manipulation. Sure we'd had plenty of time to talk this week—extraordinary amounts of time, actually. But there'd always been this urgency about everything, and now that it was gone—this was our first real chance to talk this week. And it was ridiculously nice. Nice even just to know that we were still friends, after all this.

Even after the slipping of selectively stupid words.

And maybe ... maybe after hammering at it so much for nearly a whole week, maybe it was ... okay if my mom didn't adore Amelia as much as I'd like. Maybe. Though it was probably more likely that I was just sick of it.

"Ugh," Sam said as she jammed her hands in her pockets a little further, "You really should've worn that jacket, then I could've stole it."

I gave her a snarky sideways glance. "Uh huh. I bet that's not the only reason you wish I'd worn it."

"Why else would I?"

"You can admit it, how you think I look … dashing in it."

Sam faked a disgusted sound.

And then she was looking at me and we were both laughing. And I was imagining just how fantastic it would be to swing her on my arm and—do something more romantic than I should dwell on.

"Do you want to come over tomorrow night?" I asked without thinking. And I really probably should've.

I'll blame it on all the fantastic that seemed to be floating around.

"What? I thought tonight was the do or die night," Sam pointed out.

"No, not on a fake date," I said, then frowned, "Or on a real date, either—Heh. I mean … I'll have the place to myself for most of the evening and I thought that you might want to—I dunno, raid our refrigerator and let me thank you—" I was really doing remarkable in phrase choices, "—I mean just ... hang out for a while?"

I think she was doing a terrific job of ignoring my phrase choices as she stared off to the side. "Carly's going to be home tomorrow by six."

"Oh. Yeah." I looked over to the side. "I understand—"

"Sure."

I looked at her. "Sure?"

"Yeah. Sure." She sorta smirked. "You know I can't turn down the chance at free food."

I smiled and looked off to the side.

Great. I'm not sure if that was entirely necessary, but—

--

—Yup. Totally unnecessary. And awkward, and—

Sam plopped down beside me, or at least relatively beside me, with her popcorn.

"I'm back."

—Great. This was great. Not the sarcastic kind of great, but the great kind of great. However, that didn't change the fact that Amelia was coming back tomorrow. As in less than twenty-four hours I was going to be meeting her at the airport—

"Why'd you need to go over to the Shay's?" I asked as I took a distracted handful of what felt like unnaturally greasy popcorn.

"All your mom had was Miracle Whip," Sam made a face, "So I thought I would borrow some Mayonnaise from Spencer."

"What for?" I asked as I looked back at the television and put the popcorn in my—

"The popcorn," Sam replied simply.

I gagged as the sentence hit just a few milliseconds before the taste. I gave Sam a horrified look as I tried to wash it down, or off, whichever came first, with my drink.

"What?" Sam said, sounding defensive, "I had a craving for Mayonnaise."

She turned back to the television.

"Ah, I missed the best part!" she said through her mouthful of popcorn. "Quick, rewind it!"

"It's a DVD," I answered glibly, "You don't rewind—"

"Yeah, yeah. Blah tech blah," Sam waved me off, "Just go back a scene. How did it go by so fast anyway? You didn't skip past it, did—"

"No, of course not!" I broke in huffily as I grudgingly skipped back a scene. Back to the scene with the B list blonde running through the junk yard with the mutant tiger-mouse chasing her with the jagged machete with—

"So you said that Carly's going to be back at six?" I asked and looked over at her.

"Uh huh," Sam murmured. She looked fairly transfixed on the screen as the blonde victim began to tire, more shots of the monster's feet came, the tension-music continued building—

"Did you mean six tonight?" I asked as I quickly looked over at the clock. "Geez, look at the time! It's already getting to be—"

"Freddie," Sam looked at me in exasperation, "Shut … up."

"What?" I asked as I tried to squirm up a little higher on the couch, "I'm just asking a question, question whether Carly's going to be back soon or—"

The monster suddenly jumped onto the screen and onto the woman, and she let out a bloodcurdling scream. Literally. Like … as in blood, and curdles of blood and—

I guess I might've let out a little yelp. A manly little yelp, that is.

"Oh, isn't that awesome!" Sam said and pointed at the screen.

I'm not sure exactly what she was referring to visual-wise, since I wasn't ... exactly looking at the screen.

But then the scene changed and Sam was looking at me. "Aww, is the scary movie too much for little Fredward?"

"No!" I tried to sound shocked at the suggestion, and not as shaky as I felt.

_Stupid Sam anyway, and her stupid idea of bringing over her stupid collection of stupid horror movies. … Stupid little manly yelp._

"Good," Sam said as she leaned over towards me and the remote, "Because we're going to watch it again—"

"No!" I exclaimed as I pulled the remote away, "I mean ... no. It would ruin it if we watched it again."

"Admit it, Benson," Sam said as pushed at my shoulder, "It's not a big deal. Not all guys like scary movies."

"What are you talking about? I _love_ scary movies." I tried to laugh, but it came out rather pathetic. I noticed that somewhere in the space of the remote grab, Sam had innocuously went from relatively sitting next to me to sitting next to me. There's a difference. A _big_ difference. "You know me, can't get enough of them."

"Uh huh." Sam looked back at the TV and smirked. "Doesn't it make you feel sort of dirty?"

My head jerked back around to where she was—way too close to me. "What do you mean?"

She gave me a smirk. "Oh, come on. What's the highest rating this TV's ever seen? PG?"

"No," I muttered quietly, in a begrudging sort of way I suppose as I tried to scoot away, "She doesn't let us watch PGs."

"Then I'm doing you a favor." Sam looked back at the TV and nonchalantly scooted over towards me a few more inches, pretty much voiding what little progress I'd made. Or could make now that I was against the arm of the couch.

When she looked at me, it was with a smirk and general air of not-seriousness. Like she was making some joke over our proximity, like it wasn't about anything related to serious, or romantic.

She was a real nut.

I coughed into my hand and looked back at the television, but to my luck another pouncing scene was in the making. Great. I wish that was the only reason why I felt all tingly and—squirrelly, and not suave. Not that I wanted to be suave in this situation—or at least not that I thought I should want to be suave—

_Ugh_.

Seriously, it was like sitting next to a Tesla coil. She made it so hard to think, and so hard to think at anything below a frenetic pace. She made it easy to have an elevated heart rate and crazy ideas. _Way _too easy.

I turned my head to find that she was facing back towards the TV, but her eyes kept looking down and sorta off to the side. My side.

What—what—what—was I supposed to—do?

There was another victim screaming that made me jump again.

Arm around the shoulder. That was what I was supposed to do.

_No_. No, no, no. That wasn't what I supposed to do. That might be what I _wanted_ to do, but there were massive amounts of difference between the two.

I sighed, wistfully remembering that I had thought at the beginning of this week that I was going to find out if Sam liked me. But what was I going to do, ask her?

Yeah. It wasn't as if Freddie Benson's plans could ever be expected to pan out. Just ask Carly. Or the rest of the universe.

Or Sam.

But this would pass, this would pass and Amelia would be back tomorrow.

I sighed.

… _Where did this week go?_

--

**AN: **I probably should be making a more frequent habit of thanking all the great and wonderful human beings who've left reviews. Thanks guys/gals, they're deeply appreciated.

I'm also sorry if this chapter was really long—it just wouldn't stop. But I guess that's the downside of actually hacking out a definite structural plan, something I probably actually should've done a while ago.

And I'm also sorry about this quote--I don't even know if it's exactly correct.


	16. Chapter 15

Sigh. "When I grow up, I wonder what kind of girl would want to marry me."

--Freddie Benson

i'M Sick of Being Scared

Nothing seemed to be going right.

It seemed even worse now than it had when Sam and I'd been fighting. And it wasn't just because my little scheme to make my mom take to Amelia hadn't worked. It was—everything.

I had missed Amelia. There was no getting around that. I liked Amelia. Ditto.

Everything was messed up, but really only because of one, singular fact.

When I saw Amelia again for the first time in over a week, the best I could muster was—I don't even know what it was. But it certainly wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

As terrible as it was, I regretted that the week was over, mission accomplished or not. As downright sleazy as it was, I probably would've traded a lot of things to make this week last forever.

It was hard to even admit it in my head, but I wanted to be with Sam more than I did Amelia. That was the truth.

And I'm pretty sure it haunted everything. Starting with the way I put my shoes on in the morning, thinking, usually hoping that maybe by some accident, some miracle I would get to see more of Sam than I did the day before.

I remember when I used to do this with Carly, but this was worlds different. This was something I couldn't stop.

From the way I put on my shoes to the way I kissed Amelia. And I wasn't stupid enough to try to believe that Amelia was. She knew something wasn't right.

I _needed _Amelia. I was only just beginning to see even just a fraction of that. She made everything better, kept everything in perspective. What mattered and what didn't. Looking back now, I couldn't say when or from where, but things were better between my mom and me than they had been in a long time. And things just _in general _were better. But Amelia was honest. And it was with an honest perspective that I was finally coming to the notion, the horrible notion that this Sam thing wasn't going to go away. I wasn't sure if I had ever _totally_ wanted it to, but that was sort of irrelevant.

What was relevant was that I was terrified.

It was the kind of fear that you could put away, shelve, even forget about for a while. Like reading about the class presentations in the syllabus at the beginning of the semester that you would have to do months later. But it never totally went away. Not completely.

It came every time I returned to the stabilizing idea that this was okay. I was fine where I was at with Amelia, that this was _right_, this was okay, but ... was this all there was? Was this as good as it got? What if there was something better, _someone_ better? If this was right, did that mean I was stuck in this for the rest of my life? Because if it _was_ right, when would it end?

It wouldn't. That was the whole point to finding something right. It would go on forever, and my life wouldn't have ... someone like Sam.

All right, maybe I was scared of this never ending. Maybe. It was only natural. Maybe it would be a good thing for me and Amelia to see other people for a while, to get rid of this, to satisfy this fear.

But I had to—repeat, _had to _get over this notion of Sam, or even of anyone Sam-like or possessing Sam-like qualities, in any quantity. It might be something fun to think about, even fantasize about for unhealthily long periods, but people like me just couldn't ... they just couldn't.

--

Brown eyes. Looking at me. Dark brown.

"What do you want me to say?" Amelia asked.

It was a simple question in answer to a simple question I'd asked. It was simple enough I don't even remember what it was.

But she wasn't trying to answer—or ask a simple question.

I stared back at her, where she'd pulled her head from my shoulder. We'd been laying together on her bed, doing some of her makeup work. It had been fairly sweet up until this point. Routine. But sweet.

"I don't know."

--

"Hey, Freddo!" Spencer greeted as I stepped into the Shay's living room.

"Hey, Spencer," I nodded. I spied a large bowl on the coffee table. "Ooh, are those cashews?"

"They are indeed," Spencer said with a satisfied smile, "Along with every other nut known to man and/or mankind."

"What they for?" I asked as I took a handful.

Spencer looked down at them with a wistful look. "Well, I got this job to make a sculpture for a psychiatrist's office and was thinking of using these. I was going to call it _Assorted Nuts_." His face fell a little. "Buuut then I realized that they probably wouldn't appreciate that sort of humor—"

"No," I shook my head as I sat down in the chair in front of the bowl, "Probably not."

"So I'm going in a different direction—" Spencer paused and gave a token grimace. "Too bad I didn't decide that _before _ordering twenty pounds of these."

"At least they should last you guys for a while—"I paused, "Or at least until Sam comes over."

"So," Spencer said, clapping his hands, "I suspect that you're looking for Carly."

"You suspect correctly," I said with a smile, trying to fight the odd notion that Spencer didn't want me here. He just didn't seem as ... loose as usual.

"She probably told you that she was going to be home a little bit early today," Spencer continued, "But she called a bit ago, said something about finishing up her lab, so it'll be a little while yet. Probably about an hour."

"Oh," I said, "Okay. I guess I'll come back then. I suppose an hour of Color Me Crocheting with my mom won't _kill _me."

Spencer looked off to the side with a distant smile. "Yeah."

I took a token handful of nuts as I made to stand up, "Well, I guess I'll see you later."

The phone rang from the kitchen.

"Yeah," Spencer replied as he turned to go answer it, "See ya in a bit, Freddie."

I made it about halfway to the door before my self-control crumbled. Pivoting, I quickly retraced my steps to the bowl as Spencer picked up.

"Hi, dad."

That pricked my attention a bit, but I was far more concerned with finding another one of those soft little white nuts I'd discovered in my last handful. I half sat on the edge of the chair as I tipped the bowl around in pursuit of—

"Yeah, I got your message," Spencer's voice came from the kitchen, "... Yes, that's why I wanted to talk to you."

I briefly looked up, Spencer's tone of voice abruptly connecting with the thought that this was private, and I probably should be going.

Spencer was evidently standing behind the kitchen's dividing pillar, because I couldn't see him.

Spencer's tone didn't improve. "Yes, I _realize _this is costing a lot of money—"

I began to stand up.

"No!" Spencer shouted, "We are not doing this again, do you hear me!"

I sat down. Like someone had pushed me.

"That—that—" he was trying to say, "No, that's not the problem. The problem is that you made a promise—no, no, I don't _care _what the service says. _You _said that you were going to be home for Christmas. That's what you told me, and that's what you told Carly!"

He paused, and I could faintly make out the voice on the other end.

"It doesn't matter—doesn't _matter_ how important it is, there's always something important," Spencer cut in angrily, "I am getting sick of this, having to go between you two to explain to Carly—no, don't put—don't put words in my mouth! I _didn't say_ that I was sick of taking care of Carly—" he hesitated as the other voice came back loudly, "No, what I am sick of is trying to be you, okay? Because I can't, I can't be you—" more voice, "And I definitely can't be mom!"

The voice on the other end got even louder.

"Oh?" Spencer asked, "No, you know what? Just forget it, just forget—"

There was a clang as he slammed the phone back.

My heart was pounding and I felt not good. Terrible, actually. And stupid, and insensitive, and—I had to get out of here somehow. But that didn't seem very possible with Spencer right there.

I shakily tried to rise to my feet without the chair make any noise.

Spencer abruptly exited the kitchen, looking like he was headed for his room. Looking like he was distracted. Distracted enough that it took several steps into the living room before he noticed me and froze.

"Oh—" Spencer said as his mouthed worked in surprise, "Freddie. What are you still doing here?"

"I, uh," I started with token sounds that happened to be words, "—I didn't mean to."

Spencer looked like he was actually feeling about as well as I was. Maybe even as guilty too. "Nah ... don't worry about it. It's no big deal."

I nodded like I actually believed him. I turned to leave. For real this time.

"Ah, wait," Spencer said, "You don't have to go ... here, sit down. Have some more nuts. I have to get rid of them somehow."

The humor didn't exactly work, but what was I supposed to do now, say no? Making an excuse was plausible, but—

Spencer sat down on the couch and grabbed a handful as he stared off to the side. I slowly sat back down on the chair and tried to nonchalantly take some more nuts, as though it didn't feel like we were playing with matches in a hydrogen shed.

"You know," Spencer began, trying to make motions with his hands, "This kind of thing doesn't always happen."

"Spencer," I said slowly, "You don't have to try to explain, it's—"

"No," Spencer rubbed his hand through his hair, "No, it's not all right. It's not always like that. It really isn't. In fact it's barely ever like that." He sank back into the couch with his hands on his knees. "And I know what's going to happen. It's the same every time. He says something to us, then says he won't be able to do it. I say something—usually a little more calmly, and then wait a few weeks until he gets guilty enough to change his mind. I know. I know _that_, which makes it weird—that I do the same thing. Every time. And sometimes I even—" more arm waving, "Overreact."

I nod, because I really don't believe there's much else for me to do.

"But—" Spencer says, with that expression on his face that I tend to associate with his more artistic side, "It doesn't fix things, you know? But I—have to. To try at least. To—let it out, you know?" He looked over me with a trying-to-be-humorous again expression, "Just blow up. Let it _all _out, kinda like this zit I had on my back this morning—"

"Okay!" I threw out my hand. "I get it. Let it _all _out. Right."

"_All _of it," he laughed a little, "So what about you? I'm sure you feel that way sometimes in all your post-tweeness." He made a sad face. "Don't make me feel guilty and say you don't."

"Yeah, I guess," I admitted, in a neutral, not really admitting anything kind of way. Then I thought for a moment. "But ... it's not the same, you know?"

Spencer gave me a questioning look.

"I don't ..." I paused, trying to grasp an idea that seemed so obvious in my mind, yet so horribly uncooperative in specifics, "Say stuff. I mean ... I get angry and shout and ... make myself feel guilty, but I don't really ... say what I want to say." I laughed a little. Then looked up at Spencer. I hadn't really intended on sharing anything real or sensitive or ... anything really. But this was Spencer, and it was ... okay. Maybe even kinda nice. "Which is weird, because I say stuff that I would never want to say any other time—stuff I don't even want to say _while I'm saying it_. But I can't—I'm afraid to say the ... real stuff." I looked back at him, realizing just how much I was actually looking everywhere else. "I envy you. I wish I could say something like that. Even if I knew that it would all turn out in the end ... only ... I don't. I don't know that it will turn out the end, and I ... don't feel like it will."

I just kept talking. I really had meant to stop after admitting to not saying stuff.

"Like what?" Spencer asked softly.

"Like what what?" I asked, trying to remember what exactly I'd just said.

"Like what are you afraid to say?"

I frowned, though not really seriously. I just really didn't want to go here. True, I'd already gone here, way too far here, but the prospect of naming _specifics_ was on the table now.

"Aren't you suppose to ask _why_ I'm afraid to say it?" I say instead.

He laughed genuinely a bit at that. "Everybody knows _why_. I mean, because everyone has something they're that way about."

"But that's okay ... right?" I ask, surprised at how earnest I sounded. "Because if everyone has it, and there are some people who are okay ... who are good, then that doesn't mean ..." I trailed off, absolutely not clear where I had been going with this.

Spencer sorta shrugged. "I don't ... know." He leaned forward towards me a bit, and put his hands together. "But I do know ... that honesty is always the best policy." He looked up and his eyes grew distant for a moment. "Even if that means admitting to peeking in the girls' dressing room for the fourth grade Autumn Play will get you humiliated in front of Mrs. Crumtree and the entire school ... and make Wendy Peppermen hate you for the rest of your life ... and—"

"Spencer," I broke in, more for his sake than mine. Though both sakes were certainly significant factors.

"Anyway," Spencer jerked and then cleared his throat. He looked up at me again and pursed his lips, "My point is that if you don't say what you want to say ... right or wrong, you'll regret it."

I found myself looking down at my hands.

"And it's better not to live with regrets," Spencer said, and then paused. He suddenly clapped his hands on his knees. "Which is why I'm going to go for it and put some peanut butter on some marshmallows!" He shot up and headed for the kitchen. "Because I would regret _not_ going with this idea," he looked back, going back to half-serious for a moment, "Right?"

"Yeah," I answered as I stood, knowing I agreed, but not quite knowing how I felt about that.

"You with me?" he shouted back as he pulled out the peanut butter.

"Nah, I think I'll pass," I said. My face involuntarily scrunched as Spencer spread a glob of peanut butter over a marshmallow.

The door opened.

"Pass on what?" Sam asked as she walked in and tossed her backpack on the couch.

Whoa. Sam here. Now. That was kind of unsettling, given the nature of the previous conversation. Good thing she was looking at Spencer and not me, because I have no idea what my expression looked like.

"Peanut butter marshmallows!" Spencer shouted, holding them up for her to see.

"Eh," Sam muttered, sporting a scrunched face as well, "That combination gives me—" she glanced over at me out of the corner of her eye, "... Digestion difficulties."

"Nah uh," Spencer said in a pouty voice, "There's no way you've ever had this before, because I just thought of—Oh my God!"

"What?" Sam and I both jumped.

Spencer ran into the living room, clutching his treat—which seemed kind of unnecessary because it looked like it was voluntarily sticking to his hand—excitedly, "So, what did you guys think—how did it—was it—"

"Whoa, whoa," Sam said as she made deceleration motions, "Slow down there, partner. Have a butter mallow ... what are you talking about?"

"The Dream Drizzlers," Spencer said, then paused, looking hurt at our expressions, "Remember? ... The things I handed out to you guys at the party, remember? The things that are supposed to—"

"Give someone good dreams," I finished, smiling and pointing at him, "Yeah, I remember."

"So did you try them?" Spencer said in a voice so hopeful it nearly verged on pathetic.

"No," I shook my head.

"Nope," Sam added. Her expression went indignant at Spencer's visually expressed shock. "What? I gave them to the cat—"

I looked at her. Also with visually expressed shock.

"What?" she repeated. "She wouldn't shut up." She raised her eyebrows. "They did the trick—put her out until Tuesday ... can't tell you what kind of dreams she had though."

"Aw! You guys—" Spencer started in dismay.

"Wait—wait, I do think I might've had one," Sam exclaimed as she looked off into the distance, "I think I accidentally took one because they looked like those weird little kid aspirins my mom buys—"

"So did they work?" Spencer broke in breathlessly, "Did you have good dreams? How did you sleep?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Sam asked, sounding annoyed, "I was asleep."

"You guys," Spencer moaned, "How I am supposed to know if they work if—Freddie. My man. My main dude. Will you—" he completely broke down, "Pleaaaassse try them—just one? Just one tinsy, binsy—"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," I said, trying to calm him, "I will, will. What are friends ... for?"

Sam looked at me in a way that clearly said not for testing questionable ingestibles.

"I'm holding you to that," Spencer managed.

There was a long pause.

"Yes. Let's do that," Sam looked at me.

"I ... didn't say anything," I said slowly, more than a little confused.

"Well let's pretend you had," Sam said as she grabbed my arm and dragged me up towards the studio, "Come on, let's go see what Carly's doing."

"Carly's not—" I said as she left me at the first landing and pounded up the stairs, but she didn't hear me.

I stood there for a minute, and then glanced back towards the kitchen where Spencer was already mostly recovered and humming as he rolled his marshmallows on the fork he had planted in the peanut butter container.

I had an urge for a dramatic sigh.

Now I really wished I had named some specifics to Spencer. Like the one that had just pounded up the stairs. Just to get it out. It wasn't as if I couldn't trust him, or as if it would've been a massive mistake or anything.

In fact I could still tell him. Right now. I wasn't going to, but I could.

I smiled at that as I followed quite a bit more slowly after where Sam had disappeared, thinking just how true it was that all the good advice in the world alone couldn't help anyone.

Because it was—

--

—Sam's feet absently kicking above her as we waited for Carly to get home. Kicking in an absent, preposterously adorable way—

_Stupid adorable feet kicking—actions._

--

—a different type of adorable. Spending hours herding Amelia's brothers through the neighborhood Trick-Or-Treating, and trying to sneak a kiss whenever they weren't around or looking—so like once ... maybe twice that night.

_Sweet, pretty Amelia._

--

It was our Lit. teacher painstakingly outlining how this question was an "essay" question that required an "essay" answer—no yes or no responses. Then she noticed Sam slumbering beside me.

When she demanded Sam's answer, and then threw an eraser at her, Sam jerked up.

"Yes!"

Laughter.

Because it was funny ... and sadly adorable as well.

_Stupid sadly adorable funny ... ness._

--

—walking Amelia home. With the wind making her walk behind me. Pressing her head into my back as I made at pretending to walk slow.

--

It was Sam in her blue hat thing when December dipped below freezing for a few days.

--

It was Amelia mouthing the words to her sappy love songs as we did homework, thinking I didn't notice.

--

It was me not realizing Sam had changed my ring tone to "I'm a Barbie Girl" until it went off in the cafeteria. And the way she had laughed. And smiled.

_Stupid expressions of happiness._

--

It was Sam justifying budging in line because it was tacos for lunch today.

--

It was—wait. Sam budging in a lot of things, like back and forth thought monologues. Like this one.

It was Sam and her antics and her humor and her ... spontaneity and—

It was Sam at the worst of her pushy aggressiveness ... that had absolutely no call to be exciting or—

It was Sam.

_Sam._

It was—

--

Me walking towards Sam at her locker. There were other people around, but they were blurs, faces I knew but couldn't see.

I stopped in front of her, expecting her to say something. She didn't. She just kept staring back at me, a slight smile on her face as though I was some mildly amusing television show she was watching.

Time unmeasurable and even more time after that passed. I just stood there staring at her staring back at me, slightly rocking on feet I didn't have but assumed were there.

I couldn't take it anymore.

_Say something!_

"Carly ..." Sam began, "... Will never love you."

I felt everything kind of collapse as something strong rose up inside of me.

"Amelia will never love you," she continued like she was reciting what she had for breakfast.

I was closing the distance between us. It didn't seem right because it was taking a long time, but that didn't matter.

I was angry and I was going to hit her. Hit her hard. I didn't care how wrong it was to hit a girl. She was going too far—

"I will never love you—" she continued on as if ticking off a list of names.

—Absolutely too far to do this to me and I was going to hit her. I rushed the remaining distance, furiously propelling myself to hit her and—

I rammed my lips into hers. Weird how the impact didn't send us both into the lockers behind us, but all I could really care about was how it felt. It was like something special and good, and it was familiar. I had done it before.

Special and warm.

For whatever reason I pulled away from her, trying to see her vague face. But she wasn't looking at me. Her eyes were unfocused and staring off somewhere above my shoulder.

"You don't love Carly."

"No," I murmured, shaking my head and wishing that I would move away from her.

But I wasn't going anywhere.

"You don't love Amelia."

"Stop," I managed, louder this time, needing her to stop. Because she couldn't go—

"You love—"

"No!" I screamed and found myself clutching at my covers, sweaty and panting and in the middle of a disaster site that had been my perfectly orderly and mundane bed when I had gotten into it—I jerked my head towards my clock—only two hours ago.

Vaguely I recalled I had decided that it wouldn't be all that big of a deal if I did try one of Spencer's Dream Drizzlers. That was somewhere in the league intelligence-wise of asking Spencer to wire a chicken coop stuffed with dry straw. Oh yeah, and scented with gasoline.

There seemed to be more than a few things wrong with falling asleep in a swamp of sweat, so I quickly vacated the premises, waiting for my mom to pop in at any moment. But she evidently hadn't heard me, so I proceeded without mishap to the shower.

I'd just taken a shower not all that long ago—two hours ago, actually—but I was in desperate need of one.

But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how long I sat under the burning the memories didn't go away. The things associated with kissing Sam probably hadn't been this vivid since I'd actually done it. And the words I'd just dreamed had never actually happened, but they kept replaying in my head over and over.

I washed myself twice over just for kicks and distraction, but I was obviously too distracted to distract myself. I ended up washing my hair three times, my arms four, my back once, and the rest was anybody's best guess.

And the harder I tried to think about anything—hobos, unicorns, really, _anything—_the more I began to not want it to go anyway. Any of it. But it did and was, slowly and from the edges first, but the rest began to fray. Until a few hours later and it was becoming hard to replay the feeling of her lips.

Beaten to death didn't even begin to describe it. If it had been a horse it would've been glue by now.

"I don't want this—I don't want this—Oh God, I don't want this."

--

"—We don't honor—" the man with the sideburns—the ones he'd probably been born with—repeated.

The Saturday morning sun was beating in through the We Sell Cells store windows. Like actually _beating_, and then continuing on into my skull in similar form and fashion.

"—More than three replacement requests. Yeah, I got that the first time," I growled, which was actually a fairly cordial response considering I'd heard that phrase no less than six times in the last twenty minutes. I know. I was counting.

The caliph of cell phone "support and service" gave a token look at the rest of the store, maybe wishing that there were some other customers so that he could tell me to move on outright. But there weren't, and he turned his perpetually somewhere else expression back to me.

He resumed. "You can put in a request online, but—"

I tuned out the rest. I mean, this guy evidently only had four phrases of English he knew and could effectively communicate.

I leaned my head and fist onto the counter. It hurt. My head that is. Though since my fist was connected to the rest of my body, it hurt by extension as well.

Leave it to me not to go with the all inclusive warranty in the pursuit of saving a few bucks. After all, why would I need to replace my phone more than once a month? Silly me.

If I had a car, I'd make sure my coverage included fire, flood, earthquake, and Sam.

Sideburns man's script came to the reason for requesting a replacement, the one place in his interchangeable monologues that seemed to offer any hope. Though I don't know why I kept buying into the idea that it would.

"—No, she wanted to see if it would float," I clarified. Again. And lost a little more faith in Spencer's notion of pursuing honesty. Again. It had probably been a mistake to detail exactly why my cell phone was presently soggy and inoperable.

Sideburns man stared at me as he paused, presumably for thought, and I experienced another annoying bit of hope.

"... They don't." That being his conclusion of a moment later.

"Thank you!" I answered sarcastically. "We know that now." Keeping on the whole honesty thing, I was beyond irrevocably irritated by this point. Though after a night devoid of significant sleep or anything else positive, what had I been expecting? "Listen ... listen, please. All I want is a replacement ... like my plan covers—cover_ed_ when I signed up. Please ... have mercy."

Another long stare. "We don't honor more than three replacement requests."

--

My Saturday morning hadn't improved. Finally succumbing to hunger, I'd stopped by McRonalds. Only it was around ten thirty and they were still serving breakfast.

Now I don't want to say that this led to another employee/customer confrontation, but well ... that's what essentially happened.

But seriously, I don't even need the whole bitter night of bitterness I'd just weathered, not to mention sideburns man, to excuse myself. Honestly, truly, _come on_, no one—_no one_ went to McRonalds for breakfast. It was a burger joint—an establishment that was supposed to serve _burgers_. I didn't want some healthy morning alternative garbage, I wanted a _burger_. As in something greasy enough to drown my sorrows in.

_Bûr'gər_.

I don't want to say how this ended, but well ... wait. This is my narrative, dangit. I'm _not _going to say.

Though I will say the notion that all this prolonged contact with Sam over the years was rubbing off on me didn't seem all that ridiculous on the way home.

I was all over the place. Another notion, that Amelia was my stress ball, didn't seem all that ridiculous either. It was too bad she was off shopping with her mom today. Because I really could've used her.

_Shallow, Freddie. That's so—_

But what if it was the truth? What did that say about—

Scared—so scared when the weather forecast for the rest of my life came back the same—as in the rest of _all_ of it—sunny, nice, wrong, right, warm, pleasant, suffocating, indefinite—

My head kept running in these circles, and everything just wouldn't stop repeating itself. Sam, I don't like Sam. Can't stop thinking about Sam, Sam. Want to stop—can't stop—won't stop—don't wanna stop—

Incoherency.

But I wanted too, really did. Because this made me feel so guilty—but if it was making me feel guilty, wasn't that the truth? And if it was the truth—

Ugh. But it didn't matter what the truth was. Because there was a lot of truth in the world, things that people _wanted _to do but couldn't, because it would be—

But I wanted to. I _might _even ... if it wasn't crazy I might—no, it was impossible.

Truth—truth—the truth was this kind of thing went on for hours.

The truth was I more or less collapsed somewhere around three.

I remember waking up and my mom supplying me with an obligatory supper, but that was a blur. A memory that didn't even seem real.

Then I was in my room. It was dark. The clock read after twelve.

I sat up. I was genuinely feeling a lot better. A lot—clearer. It was like someone just pressed the play button after leaving the fast forward on.

The arguments were still there. The same ones, really. But it was time. I had to let this out. Otherwise I was going to literally explode, go postal, or spend the rest of my life in a padded cell cutting out pink paper kittens. Or something about as appealing.

I called Carly. She picked up, already in bed. Nearly asleep/sleeping. I went over, trying to figure out just what she thought, or at least what she knew about this whole thing. But then it became necessary to try to remember when I'd last had any sort of substantial conversation with Carly. The only thing I really came up with was the last time I'd come over at this sort of hour. In similar circumstances actually, only reversed.

"Hey," Carly greeted me at the door, "Are you sleep walking?"

I frowned. "No."

"Good." She raised the rolled up newspaper in her hand and began hitting me over the head with it.

"Ow—what? Stop!" I protested as I tried to put my arms up.

"That's for waking me up after midnight!" Carly said, punctuating the sentence with one last whack. Then she rearranged her face into a slightly more pleasant pitch. "Now ... what was it that you wanted to talk about?"

I warily walked past her into the living room, still keeping my arms and shoulders up a little and my eyes on that completely unnecessary newspaper, "I'm not sure if I want to anymore. I was hoping for someone _tender _and understanding to talk to."

"Oh, quite being so melodramatic," Carly said as she rubbed at her eyes and moved to the couch where she plopped down, "So what's the big emergency?"

I stayed standing in the middle of the room and looked over in the direction of Spencer's room. "I don't really think we should talk about this ... down here—"

"Oh, quite being such a drama queen," Carly said with a roll of her eyes.

"Please?" I asked, looking at her with utter, serious abandon in the hopes that she would see just how serious this was.

Carly blew at the hair in her face, "Fine, but only on the condition that I can make some hot chocolate."

"Carly, no—" I began to protest.

"Relax," Carly said as she ran into the kitchen, "It'll only take a second, and you'll be able to spill the innermost recesses of your soul."

"But—"

"Go on," she waved at me, "I'll be up in a minute."

So I spent the next two minutes—_two _minutes—as in one more than one, pacing the iCarly studio. Not only was this crazy, but it was going to happen. It really was going to happen. It was so weird and impossible to comprehend and—going to happen in front of Carly.

Wow. Irony, I guess.

What was I going to say? I had no idea.

Okay, I knew the whole admitting this Sam ... thing was going to happen. But specifics like how, from where, or where to exactly were anybody's guess.

"Present," Carly announced as she came in with two mugs of hot chocolate, "Let the spilling begin."

I felt my lips compact at her breezy, practically off hand entrance. I waved off the mug she offered me. She frowned, seated herself in a beanbag, set the two mugs down, and then looked at me.

The room was kind of pounding all around my head as she stared back at me. With the question.

"So ..." she started hesitantly, "I'm losing precious beauty sleep because ..."

Here. It was here. I just needed to say ... something.

"I ..." felt my head moving around, "Think I have a thing for ... Sam."

Carly looked carefully confused. Like she was suspecting something horrible ... or big, or big and horrible, but didn't want to jump to it. "A ... thing? For Sam?"

I groaned. "A ... thing thing."

She crossed her arms. "Freddie ... this is the part where you start making sense ..."

I threw my arm out in the air. "I have a ... I like Sam, okay!? I can't stop thinking about her, she's driving me insane! Okay? Is that—"

"What are you talking about?" Carly softly sounded ... looked horrified. Not the kind of horrified resulting from something horrible, just horrified. Dumbstruck.

"I'm absolutely, completely going crazy!" I went on as I paced around in a rough circle, and then whirled around at Carly again. "And it's all her fault!"

"Are you serious?" Carly asked. "Are you ... serious ... you _like _Sam? Like ... like like?"

I groaned again and finally dropped down into the beanbag beside her. "I think so."

"This is ..." Carly tried, "This is ... does Amelia know about this?"

I looked over at her, feeling ... I felt better. It was almost like it was out of my hands now—which wasn't true at all, but it ... felt better.

"You're the only one I've told," I said quietly, then looked down at my hands.

"But ..." Carly said weakly, "_Like _like?"

I stared back at her as she waited for an answer ... didn't get one, picked up her hot chocolate, and then downed a large mouthful of it.

Then we were smiling.

"Oh. My. God." Carly managed.

I leaned my head back in my bean bag. "Oh, my God."

Then Carly was laughing, and it wasn't like I could help it.

"Oh, my God! This is great!" she declared.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes!" Carly looked at me, smile not changing. "In a completely terrible way!"

My grin widened.

Then Carly was on her feet and doing the pacing. "But—we can fix this. You've just gotta tell Amelia the truth—"

My grin died.

She didn't stop. "Then we've got to ... oh, my God. What if Sam ... could she—"

"But ..." I started.

"But what?" she stopped suddenly.

"I ... it's not that simple," I said. "I mean I can't just fix the problem ... because there isn't a problem!"  
"You're dating the wrong person, that's the problem," Carly went on, not looking at me, looking excited, entirely too animated.

"But there's nothing wrong—" I protested, "At least not wrong like it's got-to-be-fixed kind of wrong."

Carly stopped and looked at me. "Oh, yeah? Then why are you over here?"

I meant to say something. But I didn't.

Carly was beside me then, looking happy, serious. "Don't you get it? This is like the coolest thing ever! You've just admitted that you love Sam!"

"No! I didn't say I _loved_—"

"Freddie," Carly pressed on, ignoring my nitpicking of relatively unimportant details, "You come over here with a problem, saying that you like Sam. And if that's a problem, then that means that you like her more than Amelia, and that means ... that you can date her, and get married and have twenty kids—_and not worry about marrying me anymore_—" Carly added in a breathless rush as her face continued to light up, "Is this what's been going on with me not keeping an eye on you two? And we can all grow up and live next to each other and have ice cream on Saturdays and—" she paused at my expression, "Oh, stop it! This is great! What's the matter? What's going to stop you from going and calling up both of them and telling them the truth? Right now? What if I were to dial up—"

"No!" I jumped. "I can't! Because even if it's true that I like Sam, it doesn't matter because it just wouldn't work. It would never work, no matter however much I like her—no matter how much she screws everything up."

It was easier now, this admitting business. And getting easier.

"Why not?" Carly demanded.

"Because she's just wrong, all wrong!" I go on, this stream of stuff coming out almost faster than I can voice it, "Completely and totally wrong, and I don't want that. She's completely wrong for me and it would never work—"

"Why not?"

"Because she's not good enough for me! She's not good enough ... for ..."

Carly was looking at me.

And I was having trouble with the words that came suddenly. And so quietly. "Not good enough for ... for her."

"What?" Carly asked softly.

I stood up slowly, looking and not really seeing. I put my hand at the back of my neck as I walked.

All those whims and concepts that I was a man. That I wasn't a coward. All of them. The thoughts that had become so basic and staple to ... everything.

I stopped as I stared at the ground. "I think ... the reason why Sam's been making me so angry ... I think I'm scared of her."

Carly was on her feet. "Oh, come on—" she began angrily.

"No," I said softly. Slowly. "Not like that." I looked at her. "I think I'm scared of ... not only what she's been doing to me, but that she's not ... good enough for my mom."

--

**AN: **I'm sorry if this isn't quite as polished as it should be. I didn't go through it as many times as usual, though it _seemed _mostly okay. But then again that may just be my mood tonight.

And finally, finally it feels like we're getting somewhere. lol And please go easy on my best impersonation of _Ordinary People_'s awesome revelation scene in Freddie's "Midnight Confession." I tried. And it honestly didn't start out that way.

And on a more irrelevant note, Freddie's little dream scene was the last bit I'd written back towards when I first started this. Gah, that's already coming up to be three months ago. How did this ever get_ that_ long? Reading back over it is already inducing nostalgia. Sniff.


	17. Chapter 16

"Wow, Freddie. I like seeing you get all feisty."

--Sam Puckett

i'M Feeling Better

On a date, after a date? During school, after school? After a nice time, before a nice time?

I don't think there's really such a thing as a "good time" to break up with someone. Especially when it was the "right thing," the thing that was supposed to last for the rest of your life.

I put it off.

It made me cringe whenever I couldn't avoid coming back to it. The kind of cringe in which you wanted your body to shriven up, fold in on itself, and disappear. Preferably forever.

It was easy to feel like a bad guy. Or more like the incorrigible guy who was the one who cast bad guys for a living. After all, this whole thing had been my thing, my idea. I'd initiated it under the assumption that it was a good idea, a necessary thing.

And now it was so hard to even recall what that assumption looked like, much less felt like. Not only because I hadn't felt it in a long time.

But coward or not—and I was definitely defining myself as a coward quite a lot lately—I had a responsibility. The same responsibility that was making me feel like quitting school and migrating to a less sleazy occupation—like scrapping toilets or something.

I had a responsibility.

Freddie Benson may have come a long way from the uptight little tech boy who'd first helped form a little Internet show with his "friends" that had grown to be so popular. Freddie Benson may have even felt proud at this progress, whether or not he exaggerated just how much progress there actually was. I don't know about Freddie Benson, but I know I did.

Feel proud about it, that is. And I suppose probably exaggerated it as well.

I was a coward for not standing up to these little ideas that had been imprinted in my head, about how I was supposed to act—way back when they'd first started.

I was a coward for putting it off for three whole days. Two of which I spent with Amelia. I was a coward for nearly turning around every other foot I took towards her house.

I was a coward for almost calling it off when she was actually there, standing in front of me and not completely expecting this. I could've just given a routine smile and pretended that it was just another day. It made me feel despicable just how tempting that was.

But I didn't. Somehow I didn't.

And while I didn't tell the truth, the whole, complete, honest truth like I should've, I told enough of what I was feeling to justify why I was there.

And Spencer was right. That would grow to remain one of my biggest regrets of High School. Definitely of that year. I should've told her everything. Even the sleazy stuff. I should've.

I have no idea how much time it took. Maybe a couple minutes.

I spent the rest holding her as she cried.

--

I stared down at my mom.

I'm not sure why she'd fallen asleep. It really wasn't that late.

This place that I found myself looking down from was a lot different from the last time I'd walked in on my mom like this. Even in the past couple hours things had changed so much.

Some things hadn't changed. Some things I might've changed my demeanor towards, maybe even my ultimate reaction towards, but the things themselves hadn't changed.

It wasn't like things were suddenly going to be tulips and butterflies—like this temper thing was just going to say aw shucks, and move on. Some things hadn't changed.

But enough things had.

I sat down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. "Mom. Mom, wake up."

"Oh," she said as she jerked awake and looked around the living room a little surprised, "What time is it, dear?"

"Nine thirty," I murmured, but I wasn't overly concerned about that. I wasn't actually overly concerned about a lot of the things I had been not all that long ago. I'd like to think that was a good thing.

"I've got to …" I started, feeling a bit like I had stepping into Amelia's room tonight, "… Tell you something about the week when me and Amelia had been taking a break … you know, when I was going places with Sam? …"

--

It was a great show.

I wasn't thinking about Sam.

In addition to our Christmas send off we were doing a food theme. Again. But that probably had a lot to do with half of our "talent" being—

I wasn't thinking about Sam. Or my life problems. If there was a difference.

"Mm, hold on, I got it," said the problem I wasn't thinking about. She thoughtfully wriggled around the mouth that I wasn't thinking about either.

Carly and girl number two were wearing Santa hats and sitting on stools in the studio, blindfolded, and sampling unusual dishes that they'd put together for each other—with the aims of trying to guess what exactly they were eating. Carly's selections of course verged more on the experimental, while our other "performer" understandably showed a little bit more restraint for Carly's sake.

"No, she doesn't have it!" Carly whispered conspiratorially as she blindly leaned in my general direction. She was playing up her triumph of being able to trick her costar with her last dish, Nutria salad. Don't even Noogle that. Trust me.

But then again, I personally don't think that compared to the dish the blonde one was currently putting into her mouth. I hadn't really believed Carly when she'd handed me her list of foods. I mean ... there's obviously nothing wrong with eating most parts of a duck, but ... feet?

Girl number two was currently nibbling on one of end of the food that she'd already commented tasted like chicken, but with web-like characteristics.

No kidding.

I was about to announce that there were ten seconds left.

There was no way that particular girl was going to—

"Duck feet!" Sam suddenly shouted as she leaped to her feet.

"What!" Carly exclaimed as she jumped to her feet as well and yanked off her blindfold. "There's no way! You peeked!"

To be honest I couldn't help but suspect the same thing, even though I'd had the camera on her the whole time. Even though she was Sam.

"I did not!" Sam also pulled off her blindfold.

They squabbled.

And speedily sank to topics you just didn't discuss on the Internet.

"Guys! Guys!" I tried. You would think after all this time I would be kinda good at this. True, having to hold the camera is kinda a handicap. "The segment—the segment we're doing with limited amounts of time—"

"—Because you told me we had to hurry! How was I supposed to know that you were going sit on them?" Sam—er, the shorter contributor to the argument demanded.

"Oh? And that makes it okay that I had to walk around school all day with an orange butt?—" Carly spat.

"Guys!"

"Well next time don't buy nacho cheese!" the more assertive orientated—ugh, whatever—Sam suggested testily.

"Or maybe next time don't throw chips onto the car seat I'm going to ingress to, nacho cheese or—"

"Ooh, look who can use the thesasaurus," Sam said with exaggerated motions of praise.

"It's thesaurus!" Carly answered hotly. "It's a book, not a dinosaur!"

"Guys!" I guess I finally shouted loud enough.

"Oh … right," Carly said with a nervous little laugh as she gave a guilty look to the camera. "Well I guess since we're more or less out of time, we're going to call it a rap."

"But wait," Sam said as she grabbed Carly's dish and put it behind her back before she could see it, "You still didn't guess what you were eating."

"Oh, I already gave up," Carly answered with a frown.

"You can't give up," Sam protested.

Carly rolled her eyes, "Ugh, fine. Is it chicken? It tastes like chicken, but it can't be that simple."

Sam smiled a little as she held out the plate in front of her. "Close … it's actually turducken." She wiggled it in what she probably thought was an appealing way.

I zoomed the camera in far enough to showcase the distinct layers of meat stuffed on top of each other.

Carly slowly took off her Santa hat, looking like she was trying not to hyperventilate. "What is that?"

Sam went into food encyclopedia mode. "It's actually three different de-boned meats layered together, being a chicken that is stuffed inside a duck, which is in turn stuffed inside a turkey, hence the name—"

"Oh, my God!" Carly broke and ran off camera.

Well, at least I'd talked Sam out of feeding her reindeer strips. We had both hoped Carly would take turducken to not be quite so sacrilegious as reindeer meat on the sixteenth of December.

"What?" Sam called after Carly a little surprised, "It's not like it's anything you wouldn't eat separately—"

"That's just wrong!" Carly shouted just before exiting the studio. In fast pursuit, no doubt, of the nearest toilet.

Leaving me alone with the one girl in the world that being alone with mattered.

Perspiration and the subdued set of jitters I'd had all night tangibly increased.

"Well, I guess there you have it," Sam declared, relatively cheerfully as she turned and smiled into the camera, "Stuffing dead animals parts into each other _isn't_ appreciated by some people. Tune in next time, because there are starving children in Guam who can't." She leaned into the camera with an overly serious expression, taking off her Santa hat and solemnly holding it in front of her.

I consciously kept her plate of turducken in the shot. Which I imagined every starving kid from Guam would just love to see.

"Please …" she whispered dramatically, with a face that was ... exceptionally catching, exceptionally ... there, "... Think of the children."

Sadly I couldn't. Actually I couldn't think of much else besides that serious kind of face ... and all the situations where I would love to see that face. Situations, positions, or just that face in general. Or maybe just her face in general.

This proximity thing with her was getting worse. And now I was single, which I was discovering _didn't_ help things.

Some time—more time than I'd meant to spend staring (though I hadn't meant to stare at all in the first place) passed, and then she was looking up at me.

I guess I might've forgotten to say that we were clear … Actually, I might've forgotten to _get_ us clear too.

"Fredward," Sam said in an un-humored voice, "Do the one useful part of your job and press the button."

"Oh, uh," I masterfully fumbled as I did just that. Turning around hastily and going back to my laptop and _not _looking at her. "Right. Sorry."

"You're just lucky that there's a shortage of available tech weenies, or you'd probably find yourself unemployed," Sam commented offhandedly as she tossed her hat off to the side and dropped down into the nearest beanbag with her bottle of water.

"How would you know?" I asked quietly, managing to sneak a glance at her before my question brought her eyes back to me and I had to look down at my laptop, "You that familiar with the tech weenie market?"

"Mm," Sam said halfway through her drink of water as she pointed at me, "I'll drop props for that. See, it's just so much more fun when our particular tech weenie is able to—"

I probably should've let her go on. Maybe even have bantered some more, or at least done my best. Because I was enjoying this. Sadly, however, my current case of jitters made my fight or flight response temporarily tip in favor of the latter.

"Shouldn't we—you," I amended as I simultaneously fought to maintain and avoid eye contact with her. Trust me, it's difficult. And prone to producing a headache. "… Go check on Carly?"

Sam frowned, like I was an idiot. "I don't want to watch her throw up."

My fight to regain eye contact briefly triumphed as I sent her my "good friend and responsibilities" expression.

Sam groaned. "All right, all right. I'll go check on her. Geez, I didn't think she'd flip out over turducken, I mean it's just—"

And then she was on her feet and moving past me and towards the door and out of the sphere of this finite chance—for real—and I was panicking.

"Wait!" I blurted as I whirled.

Sam slowed a little, and looked back at me hesitantly.

Okay, this was the girl that I had been "trying" not to think about, remember? There were a lot of reasons for that, but one of them was because thinking about this girl also happened to make me think of this crazy plan that had involuntarily formed inside my head a while ago.

And as she stared back at me, looking all questioning and maybe even a little uncertain, this plan was there again. Sounding just as crazy as ever—not only because this was Sam. And I was me.

But she was staring at me, looking like _that_, being her, and I nearly lost it before even trying. I was experiencing an extreme shortage of nerve.

"What?" she asked carefully.

_Just forget it, it's stupid._

"I, uh," stuttered a bit as I looked down at the ground and stepped towards her a little.

_Don't do it, Freddie, don't do it! Run and hide—run and hide and never come back within ten miles of—_

"I uh, was thinking—"

Sam smirked. "No, you weren't." But totally at ease isn't quite the phrase I would've used to describe her.

I laughed a little too much in a way that was a little embarrassing. Which didn't help my quite nearly overwhelming urge to flee this situation—in the most dignified manner possible of course.

"Yes, humor, ha ha, very funny, yes." I stopped my tension-inducing attempts at tension-relieving at her slightly impatient expression. I tried to clear my throat. And failed. "But anyway, I was um, just wondering if maybe, um … Well the other day I was just wondering if—"

"Just spit it out!" Sam abruptly broke.

And then it came out. The whole ugly, crazy, wince inducing thing.

"I-was-wondering-if-maybe-you'd-like-to-come-with-me-to-eat-somewhere-this-weekend," I said in one short gasp.

She was staring at me like I was going to have to repeat myself. Not that I blame her, since it wasn't like what I'd just said was all that intelligible—

"Are you serious?" Sam asked, like she was trying to feel out the big joke, "What … did you dump your girlfriend or something?"

I stopped breathing, and we just sort of stared at each other, with a whole lot of something pressing all around into me. Hard. My ears were ringing in this stillness that was abruptly here.

"Yes."

It was a quiet admittance. The kind that you don't think you're actually going to admit, even when you know you have to. The kind that doesn't sound real even as you're saying it.

Sam remained frozen for a pair of long seconds—before she turned into someone I practically didn't recognize.

"Really?" she asked so low I almost couldn't hear her. "I'm sorry."

Then she was fiddling with the bottom of her shirt and looking off to the side. "I … uh, don't know what I'm doing this weekend, but …"

I was experiencing some heady pounding sensations. Terrifying hope. The kind you're really not brave enough to indulge in.

"Saturday evening," I helpfully supply on a sawdust dry throat.

Seriously, what sort of biological benefit does losing all possession of spit in the event of extreme anxiety serve the human body? Seriously?

I felt obliged to continue. Somehow. "I mean ... nothing serious. Not like a ... you know …" I laughed a little, didn't utter that D word, and she laughed along with me.

Sorta. But not really.

_Why Freddie, why?_

It felt like a necessary evil, and to be honest I wouldn't mind starting with a "not date" with her, to at least see how things fell. Labeling this as such was a necessary evil. One that made the way her eyes moved almost disappointedly off to the side downright awful. Because at no point in time should _anything_ make her look like that. Especially me.

Guilt and fear.

But then she was looking up at me like she was two feet tall. Stilts included.

"… Okay." She swallowed and seemed to regain a little of her composure. "I think I should be able to."

It was like I could breath again. And live to see my sixteenth birthday, and—

"That's great!" I breathed, almost succeeding in not sounding like I was excited. Or thrilled, or borderline ecstatic, or terrified in several all new terrifying ways, or—

I guess Carly's reentrance wasn't as awkward as it could've been. Like say if she'd picked half a minute ago. It was actually kind of nice, timing wise.

"Hey!" Sam said, turning quickly towards her. Evidently every bit aware of good timing as I was. "You're alive!"

"Barely!" Carly shot back, still sounding maybe two thirds incensed. "I thought you said that you were going to be taking it easy on me! What would've been hard? Sautéed Chilean monkey toes?"

"Hey," Sam said with a tone that was already sinking into defensive, "You're the one who had me chomping on duck feet—"

"Oh, like you minded—"

I was about to try to intervene but ... there were plenty of appealing reasons for letting them settle out their differences while I laid low for a bit. And recovered.

As I went through my post show routine, I kept half an eye on them. Not that I could really keep from smiling even when I wasn't looking.

--

Carly was animated. Animated and merrily humming Jingle Bells whenever she wasn't chattering at me. Experiencing her now, it probably would've been difficult to guess that she'd been gagging on her first experience of turducken not an hour ago.

"Oh," Carly leaned against my shoulder at the kitchen table, "Did I mention that we're going to Virginia to meet my dad? Did I? Did I?" She punctuated each question with a poke in my arm as she happily crunched at the end of her candy cane in her non-poking hand.

"Yes," I said, trying hard to sound annoyed. It actually was kind of annoying whenever she took to poking my touch pad arm, because it threw the cursor all over my laptop screen. I was trying to break down this show's statistics to her. Trying. "Only about ten times in the last hour."

But I couldn't manage to work up a very annoyed tone because she was Carly and ... well, I was pretty happy for her. And not just because of certain Shay family phone calls I'd accidentally overheard. Though it did kinda stink that Carly was going to be gone for some significant portion of Christmas break.

I should tell her. Right now, while Sam was momentarily gone. But I was scared half to death that she would come back at any moment—and really, I was just scared period of telling Carly I'd just asked our best friend out.

I was ... picking my moment. Yeah, that sounded good. Good and in control. My moment just hadn't come yet.

"Have you guys decided when you're leaving?" I asked instead as I scrolled down my page.

Carly leaned back in her chair, "Well, at first we were hoping he would be able to get leave for right over Christmas—and we actually thought that he was going to come out here. That's what he said, anyway."

"Oh ... really?" I asked, not quite attaining casualness.

"Yeah," Carly said as she put her elbows on the table and her head on top of her hands, leaning in closer to see what I was looking at.

I remember a time not all that long ago when I would've been lapping this up. In fact, when I stopped to analyze it for very long, I experienced some residual guilt at passing this up. But beyond lingering residualness, there was ... not much else. It was kind of cool, actually.

It was incredible how free I was presently feeling, even after just committing myself to the opening stages of another relationship.

It was like I could do anything now. Go swim the English Channel. Climb Everest, twice.

Even date Sam Puckett.

"So it's actually going to be sometime more around New Years. Yup," she gave a dreamy sigh as she leaned into my shoulder and looked up at me, "Virginia for New Years."

I summoned up a smile, because come on. Residual guilt or not, this was Carly Shay leaning against me and looking like that. But just as quickly she was on her feet and pacing around the table again.

"I wonder what you're supposed to wear in Virginia," she went on excitedly, "It's like ... a whole 'nother ocean! Have you ever been there?"

"Nope." I looked up at her, finding it next to impossible not to get happy for her all over again. What with the way she was frowning down at the end of the table. Because after all, the differing nuances of wardrobe between Seattle and Virginia ranked as a dilemma right up there with world hunger. "But I guess this means you won't be able to come to my mom's New Years party."

"That's right!" Carly exclaimed almost happily, but then looked at me again, half-heartedly guilt stricken, "Not to say that your mom isn't awesome! She is—and I'm sure her parties are … as well …"

"Don't worry," I laughed a little, "It's probably only going to be a couple of her work associates that she'll be able to con into coming. Yup, it'll be another awesome New Years countdown with my mom and way too much sugarless—soulless fruit punch." I paused, looking at her seriously. "But I'm happy for you. I really am."

She looked up at me in shock, as if just now realizing that we were alone—it was just me, her, and no Sam. I'm surprised it took her so long.

"Speaking of happy," she started excitedly as she returned to the chair beside me, "How are you? I mean have you given any thought to ... asking any certain iCarly cast mates to spend a little quality time together? Hm?"

Impossible not to grin. Widely, maybe even cheekily. "Maybe ..."

Carly had some kind of intuition that mildly scared me. "Oh, my gosh, did you already ask her?"

I flinched, surprised, to say the least. " ... Maybe?" I managed.

Carly got all serious and demanding. With a no nonsense look to boot. "You don't _maybe_ ask a girl out, Freddie. Yes or no?"

I was about to answer, but then went back to what I'd actually said to Sam. About it not really being a date. And I began to feel really stupid. "I uh ... yes? Kind of. But I might've ... kind've ... told her that it was no big deal—"

Smack.

"What!" Carly half shouted, looking like she was going to smack the top of my head again. "You did what!?"

"Shh, shh!" I frantically conveyed ssh-ing sentiments at her verbally and with some phrenetic gesturing. Sam was only just in the bathroom, after all. "I had to!"

She _did_ smack me again.

"You had to?" Carly went on. Just a touch or two below livid. "You never ask a girl out and then tell her it's no big deal!"

"But—"

Smack.

"That's a real great way to let her know how important she is! What were you thinking?" Carly asked, all but spitting moral outrage. After all, I ranked right up there with Stalin and Benedict Arnold.

"I don't know," I admitted helplessly, "I just got ... scared, I guess. I didn't think she would actually say yes—"

"She said yes?" Carly all but squealed. Nah, she did squeal.

I was grinning again. "Well, sorta—"

"Freddie, a girl doesn't—"

"Yeah, yeah," I said, "I know, yes or no. Well ..." more smiling. By this point it was getting painful. "... Yes. She said yes!"

"That's great!" Carly said as she grabbed me into a hug, but then just as quickly was pulling me up and out of my seat. "But wait, what are you doing here? You've got to leave, go, go, now, now!"

"What?" I tried as I managed to grab my laptop up before Carly was bustling me out of the kitchen. "Wait—what, why?"  
"You can't be here!" Carly hurriedly explained as we crossed the living room, "We've got to talk—girl talk, and not with you! You've got to go—no wonder she was acting so weird—Come on Freddie! Out, out—"

"Okay, okay," I said as she opened the door and more or less ejected me from the apartment, "But shouldn't I at least say good bye—"

"No!" Carly answered and then slammed the door behind me. I stood there staring at it for a moment.

A pair of heartbeats passed and then she abruptly opened it again and briefly peeked her head out, "I'll call you with instructions!"

"But wait, isn't this my—"

"No!" she replied primly, "Because you obviously don't know how to handle this situation with the maturity it deserves."

Then the door slammed with a note of finality. I heard her click the lock in place.

I stared at it.

"Girls," I muttered.

"Freddie, is that you?" my mom's voice came from inside our apartment, "What have I told you about slamming doors?"

Sometimes I felt like I was surrounded.

--

Me and that girl I had just asked out pretended like nothing was wrong. Astronomically, logically, horrendously, perfectly wrong. That contrasted almost painfully with the excruciating verbatim that I was getting non-stop from Carly about general first date etiquette and protocol. As if I didn't already know, and as if merely knowing it would guarantee anything. I think she actually wanted this to work _more_ than I did.

So Sam and I talked/insulted like usual, if maybe a little bit more quietly. And Carly drilled me like I was going to storm Normandy beach. Heh, if only I had something easy like that to do.

The days flew. The weekend came. Nothing would slow down.

I would've been fine if I'd been nervous. I would've _loved _merely being anxious.

There was only one fleeting chance at this, and infinite ways to screw it up. And that didn't even begin to account for how _she _was going to react. Did she even like me? Well, she said yes, right? But what if she _was _only going because she thought that it was "not serious?" What if—

Needless to say these things were running through my head non-stop. Actually, it seemed like every memory that I ever could claim to have of Sam was running through my head non-stop, commercial free.

And then it was Saturday.

And then it was time to go to Carly's to meet Sam.

Well, actually it was about half an hour early, but I was getting tired of beating off my mom and her blow dryer and other assorted instruments of pre-date torture. I'm just happy that all the weird reasons I'd given her why Spencer should drive us had worked.

"Hi," I said as Carly answered the door.

"What are you doing here?" Carly burst out, "You're not supposed to be here for another half hour!"

My face fell. "Oh ... she's here, isn't she?"

That obvious thought hadn't occurred to me between all these bouts of my mom and craziness. Not that there's a _massive_ distinction between the two.

"She's been here for the past two hours!" Carly exclaimed, already trying to push me back out into the hall. "Go back home for a little bit—"

"I can't—" I said. Okay, I _could_, but— "My mom is on the warpath and I—"

Carly made her aww sound. She dragged me inside and frantically looked around. "Here! I mean there! Go hide—I mean _stay_ in the bathroom, for _at least fifteen minutes_—go, go!"

By this point she'd almost already shoved me inside. I tried to put up some nominal protests, but then I was inside the bathroom and alone and temporarily insulated from everything.

Not really, because I immediately attacked my image in the mirror, going over every square nanometer of my face again. And then my hair, and then my plan—if you could call it that after everything Carly had force-fed me. Not that I was going to stick _entirely _to it. She'd mostly kept it basic and straightforward anyway.

"Freddie, Freddie, what are you doing?" I murmured, kinda pathetically as I stared at the jittery dork in trouble staring back at me. "It's not too late. Just hop a bus, and you can be in Vancouver in—"

I started pacing.

Fifteen minutes? At the rate my heart was pumping, I could be dead in ten.

I tried jumping up and down, running in place—none of it helped. Every other part of me felt like it was jumping.

Sam, Sam, I can't believe I'm actually doing this.

"I'm actually doing this!"

She had said yes. She had said yes to me. I leaned into the mirror, alternately staring into each eye. "I'm going to do this. I'm going to do this. I'm going to rock her socks, show her—something ... I'm going to do this."

And then after shooting at the mirror with my um ... fingers, and then grabbing my hair and jumping up and down again, and being beyond thankful that no one was watching this ... I was ready to repeat the process again.

"I'm not going to do this," I stared at the scared little kid looking back at me. "I can't do this, how can I do this? How can she like me, she's _Sam_. I'm going to—ugh."

Vomit. Maybe I could get rid of all this that way. I certainly felt up to it.

I quickly left the bathroom. Not that I actually believed that getting away from the sight of the toilet would actually keep me from throwing up.

"Hey, Spencer," I said as I jumped up on one of the barstools next to the kitchen.

Spencer turned and gave me an encouraging look. "There's _the_ man! How's the killer feeling?"

My hand was tapping/jumping all over the counter top. And I could _not _stop it.

"Great," I kinda lied, "Calm. Very collected. Feeling ready to kill ... or probably die. Yup, I think it's probably closer to being ready to die."

Spencer gave me a knowing smile and leaned towards me over the counter. "Understandable. This is ... kinda weird actually. But great, I would've _never _guessed ..." he was smiling off into the air, but then he looked back towards me, "I don't want to ... give things away that I'm not supposed to. Buuuuut ... I don't think you're the only one that's nervous."

"Really?" I'd like to think that didn't come out as a squeak.

Spencer pulled back and wildly put his arms up in the air. "You didn't hear it from me!"

Wow. It was like this horribly exciting thing, to imagine that Sam might be somewhere, even anywhere near as nervous as I was. That she might actually care...

But this was just a casual thing, right? Sure it was by no means a "not serious" thing, but casual. This was casual. I just had to play it cool. I could do that, I could play it—

"Hey, look. Freddie's already here," Carly said in a not altogether convincing kind of surprise a moment after I heard footsteps on the stairs.

But I wasn't looking at Carly.

_Aw, crap._

She looked ridiculously good. Granted, she was wearing "casual" clothes, but there was something distinctly different. Granted, I knew enough about girls to know that Carly (at least) had been agonizing on this for the past however many hours, and it showed. From her hair to her face to … her.

I'm a guy. For better or worse I don't have the ability to sufficiently describe all the fine distinctions of just how exactly a girl looks different in date garb.

Her hair was definitely different. How? More straight … I guess? Definitely more shiny, definitely … enough to make this energy that was pounding so recklessly through me make everything shake.

And I guess that was about as complicated as it had to get.

But it was more than just the stunning crispness of what she was wearing, and how she was made up. It was even more than just the mere fact that she was looking like _that _for _me._ It was ... everything that went along with Sam looking beautiful.

Yeah. How was I supposed to play anything casual with her looking like _that_?

Our eyes had locked when she'd reached the landing, and immediately she fell into an almost timid looking expression as she and Carly had come down the stairs. But she was smiling a tiny bit, and when they stopped in front of me, it was her turn to take in my attire.

Not that it was anything spectacular. Just a casual notch above what I usually wore. But the way she seemed to ... react favorably was kinda nice. Kinda awesome.

"Hey," she said quietly, her smile having grown from a tiny bit to a quite a bit now that we were looking at each other.

Heady. Everything was so heady. "Hey," I replied, because it wasn't like there was anything else in the English language that I could pronounce.

"So ..." Carly said when it became obvious that was all we were going to say. She looked almost disappointed, and actually spent a moment trying to communicate something to me with her face, but sadly I wasn't able to translate it. "You're a little early, _tiger_, aren't you?"

"Yeah," I murmured, brain whirling under the pressure of Sam's eyes and the need to not bring up my mother issues, "I uh ... Spencer told me that he wanted to show me his new sculpture!"

Spencer quite understandably looked surprised. "I did?" He took in my furious head gesturing. "I did! ... In fact it's ... actually not started yet. Silly me," he laughed and then leaned against the counter, "Between putting up decorations and my annual Christmas sculpture I haven't actually …" he put his hands out in front of him, "_Started _started it. As in _physically_ started it. But ... I could let you guys in on the making of the genius." He attempted a suave tone. "Just hit the Special Features icon on your DVD menu."

Silence.

Spencer cleared his throat, "Anyway, it came to me yesterday while I was in the bathroom on the ... uh, on the phone, that it occurred to me that a lot of common household items get celebrated, but no one really celebrates the _idea _of celebrating common household items ..."

We all settled in around the kitchen island for what promised to be at least a mildly entertaining explanation. I looked around at the others, not really paying much heed to this method of killing fifteen minutes or so, but it suddenly struck me as ... about as good as it got.

Not that I was listening all that closely. I mean it was kind of hard to with Sam being right here. Smiling like that as she listened. Occasionally _almost_ looking over at me too.

--

Her lips kept twitching and her eyes were wandering a lot. Not that I particularly blamed her. The alternative was staring back at me.

It was a nice Italian restaurant. With small couples' tables and low lighting and an assorted age range of patrons. Keeping with the season, they had Christmas lights and garland along the ceilings and all the employees were wearing Santa hats.

Our waitress came with our salads and provided another distraction in addition to looking over the menus. Not that I really wanted to be distracted, but so far our small talk endeavors had panned out ... okay. A little forced, a little stilted, but ... okay, I guess.

"So ..." I tried, again, even though we'd already hit on the food topic, "Are you sure you want the mozzarella lasagna?"

"Yeah ..." she answered quietly, frowning a bit, "Pretty sure."

Well, this was terrific. Come on, Freddie. _Converse._

I just had to stop being so distracted with staring at her—in all her date garb brilliance and just _talk—_

"I never asked you," Sam suddenly spoke up, "How come you weren't in Chemistry on Monday?"

"Oh," I stalled, a little taken aback. Somewhat because it had been partly due to breaking up with Amelia the night before. "I went to the nurse's office because I really wasn't feeling well. But it wasn't bad enough to go home or anything."

"Oh," Sam said in a not quite natural tone, nodding as she looked off to the side, "It seems like you've been getting sick a lot since ... lately."

She was looking at me then. And I was looking back, needing to say something honest.

"I don't think I ever got well." I said it simply.

She stared at me for a long moment, before looking back down at her salad.

I was going to say something more—apologize, I think, for all the stuff that had happened after the whole sick thing, but our waitress came back to take our orders.

It's hardly a rare thing for employees of food establishments to give Sam raised eyebrows whenever she ordered, but now it was my turn. I was ... surprised at her restraint.

Geez, Carly really was a date planning Nazi.

But as soon as the waitress left and Sam was out of salad, I guess she sort of compensated by stealing a forkful of my salad. I let the repetitions of this fairly consistent event go on, but my mind wasn't really on salads or even relatively meager orders.

She of course noticed my demeanor pretty fast, but she let it go for a minute or two before finally giving me a questioning expression.

I pursed my lips. Fine. It was going to happen. It terrified me to even think of verbally going into any one of our many unmentionable subjects, but I could do it. After all, she was here. I was here. I was doing this.

"Okay, let's get something straight right now," I said.

Sam swallowed her mouthful of my salad. "Shouldn't we stick to things like what our favorite colors—"

"No," I cut her off, striving for a vigorous tone. "We're going to get this all out, and we're going to do it now."

"Okay, okay," she answered quietly, "No need to get so assertive."

I seriously loved it when she went along with me and my rare bouts of assertiveness.

"We're going to lay this out on the table," I gestured with my hands, "All of it, and get the whole truth out."

She frowned. With those distracting eyebrows of—Focus, Freddie, focus!

"First you're going to have to stop talking in vague metaphors so I can know what you're talking about," Sam said.

"You know what I'm talking about," I shot back, not really up to games at this point. I was trying to be to the point, dang it.

"No," she said with a shake of her head, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, let's start with why you're _here_." I raised my eyebrows, trying to match her degree of calm challenging. It didn't usually work, and I didn't really expect it to now.

Sam shrugged indifferently. "Cause I like free food?"

I was going to get her to admit that this was the D word. That seemed like a good place to start. A good plan. "Oh, yeah? How do you know it's free?"

She kind of laughed. "Because I'm not paying for it."

I hated being outsmarted.

"But—that ..." wasn't fair. Why couldn't she ever just work with me? "Why can't you just admit why you're here?"

"Why can't you?" Sam shot back.

I paused. And then spoke quietly, almost timidly, "Well ... I asked you first."

"Come on, Benson," Sam said with that unenthused look of hers, "You're the guy. The guy always goes first."

"Aha!" I half leapt to my feet as I pointed. "The guy only goes first when he's out on a _date _with someone. Just admit that this is a date."

"No," Sam hesitated, looking kind of angry, "This is _nothing special_. Remember? Isn't that what you said?"

I groaned and sank back in my chair. "Why can't you ever just make things easy?"

Looking kind of defensive, that she was, "What are you talking about? I always make things easy."

"Oh, right," I rolled my eyes, "You just try so hard to make things easy."

"Easy?" she asked through gritted teeth, "You want to talk about easy? Is it easy having to deal with someone like you all the time, who has tartar sauce for brains—"

"At least I've got brains—" I returned reflexively.

"Do you think it's easy having to deal with someone who completely messes up everything, without even knowing it because he's so dense!—"

I let that one go, because she was kind of venting with all the caution of a careening freight train. And ... as she went further, her voice kept dipping higher and more—

"Easy? Easy!?" Sam's hands were planted firmly on the table by now as she leaned over at me, "And do you think it's easy having to spend three days with _you—_in your house? Where _everything _smells like you—"

She stopped so abruptly. As if she was just _now _starting to become self-conscious.

It was more in the way she said it that had hit me. Left me sitting there in our corner of the restaurant, with all the people staring at us, and me sitting, feeling numb.

Sam quickly sat back down in her seat and drew herself in. "Because you smell awful," she added quietly, but the damage was long done.

It was a thoroughly unpleasant silence. The crawly kind.

I was half glad when our waitress finally arrived with a slightly scolding expression.

"Excuse me, but you're going to have to keep the noise level down, or we're going to have to ask you to leave."

I saw Sam glance up at her with a lost look.

"We're sorry," I said quietly, in my best behavior tone of voice, "We're done. We won't bother anyone any more."

She left.

All the eyes that had been on us slowly went back to their own means. The slightly amused ones taking a little bit longer than the rest.

I felt really guilty. Which was really weird, because it wasn't as if _I_ had made Sam admit anything. Not that I was completely sure that she had, but it was hard to take it any other way. It was just how she'd said it ...

I had to say something. I guess the whole guilty thing jogged my memory of the stuff I was supposed to be saying.

_Ah, man … _And that was probably what Carly had been looking at me like that for.

_Stupid, stupid._

"I uh, guess I never told that you look pretty."

Sam looked up at me, still looking somewhere between lost and mortified.

"Well," I stuttered uncomfortably at her lack of reaction, "You do—I think you do."

"Thanks," she said quietly as she kept her eyes back down on her salad bowl.

I didn't feel much better.

"Listen," I started again, because I just couldn't stand her like this, "I'm ... really sorry. So sorry about everything."

"What?"

I made a frustrated face. "Everything. I mean ... since when we were sick."

She was still looking at me so quietly. "I don't want you to apologize."

I pounded a fist on the table. People looked again, but whatever.

"Then what do you want?" I demanded.

She went to say something, but stopped. Then shrugged.

"Oh, come on," I prodded on, trying to jerk her out of this. I literally could not stand her this. "Is it really _that_ awful that you admitted to liking me?"

That did it.

"What? I did not!" she said, trying to sound disgusted.

"Yes, you did," I jabbed a finger at her, "Not even five minutes ago."

"How?" she pressed, "And just how did I do that?"

"You ..." I trailed off, smacking into the problem that I didn't exactly have _obvious_, concrete proof or anything. "I ... just know, that's all."

Sam held up her hands, pretending to be impressed. "Whoa, when did you become Yoda?"

"Oh, come on, _Puckett_," I went on, "Why is it such a hard thing just to admit it?"

"Admit what? That I know you still wet the bed?"

"There you go again," I grandly threw my hand out into the air, "You always just have to cover anything serious with an insult."

"At least you can admit that bedwetting is a serious problem," Sam said, rising to her feet as well.

Everything was uncomfortably hot by this point.

"At least I can admit that you're being ridiculous," I shot back.

"It takes two," she returned.

"It does not!" I answered in exasperation.

"So why can't _you _just admit it? If it's so easy?" Sam inquired sarcastically.

"Admit what? There's nothing to admit." It was out of my mouth before I could consider if I really wanted to lie that badly.

"Then why do you care so much if I admit it?"

"Oh, so there _is _something to admit?" I pounced.

"Ugh," Sam groaned passionately as she stepped around the table a bit as I came around at her a bit. "You're such a complete nub."

My movement towards her was mostly unconscious. Honestly. It stemmed from an unconscious urge to shake her violently. Only by now I've realize that my inclinations to do her harm are really just sidetracked inclinations to do other stuff, like kiss her senseless.

I was starting to figure this stuff out, slowly but painfully. I really was.

"Admit it, just admit it," I enunciated at her as I moved around the table a little more and she moved the other way.

"You admit it!" she half shouted.

"Fine," I said with some exasperation, changing tracks as I conceded a little. Which was a lot more than I'd started out being willing to suffer. "If I asked you on another date, would you admit it?"

"Oh," Sam said sardonically, "So _you _admit that this is a date."

My finger involuntarily came up at her. "Don't put words in my mouth!"

"I'd like to punch your mouth!"

"Do it!" some customer from behind us shouted.

I jerked my head over towards our considerable audience I kept forgetting about, also spotting our waitress angrily stalking towards us again.

"So would you say yes if I asked you on another date?" I asked quickly.

"Fine," Sam ground out.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Great."

"Wonderful," I answered.

"Peachy," Sam muttered as she sat down.

I did the same, feeling weird because it was a different side of the restaurant I was facing. I hadn't realized that we had circled _completely _around the table.

"Well, that's it then," I declared.

Someone sarcastically applauded as we gathered our stuff together. After switching seats.

Our waitress arrived, looking heedless of our plates of food that she was carrying. "We're going to have to—"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam answered as she pulled on her jacket, "We're leaving."

I gave Sam what I hoped was my most annoyed expression as I pulled out my wallet for the food we couldn't eat.

Though Sam did grab a handful of my bread sticks as she passed our waitress.

_Okay ... this isn't going to be as easy as I thought, _I thought as we walked out into the cold.

I guess it was kind of hard to find a sunset to ride off into after five in December.

But Sam, and more importantly Sam's stomach, broke down—even from where I was standing it sounded like it was breaking up concrete—leading to small talk about the nearest fast food place we could hike to.

While a fast food restaurant wasn't exactly a sunset, I was game, and small talk about food led to small talk about maybe a follow up trip for some smoothies—Sam being oh-so-ever gracious about my willingness to pay for everything. But all of this thankfully led to other small talk eventually. Easy and ... small small talk that didn't matter. That wasn't going to pry any sort of life changing confessions from either of us anytime soon.

But it was okay. I realized that I wasn't really in any particularly big hurry.

Though somewhere in the midst of Sam's musings of how smoothies could be so great year round, I found it impossible to take it anymore.

I grabbed her hand, and she didn't resist.

--

**AN: **Ugh, I don't know. I feel like I could spend another weeek on this and still not get it right. But I _do_ know that I want to wish everyone a safe and happy Thanksgiving.


	18. Epilogue

"Hey, look at me with the possum."

--Sam Puckett

i'M Sick of Epilogues

The school day before Christmas break really isn't a school day. Still, it's always one of my favorites. It's just that atmosphere of approved chaos, of sweaters and Christmas music and classroom parties. When teachers allow candy and cupcakes and a general lack of educational progress. When things are loud and noisy throughout the day, with the halls full of plans and paper ball fights and—

—Recently dumped girlfriends walking in the opposite direction.

Granted, this was hardly the first time I'd seen her since I'd broken up with her. But it was nothing short of terrible, in all this fun and general happiness, that she looked so miserable.

It was a little harder to catch her in the middle of second block rush, but I managed to slip through the jostling just before she got to her locker.

"Hi."

She looked up, surprised, her face going bleak when she saw who it was. "Oh … hi, Freddie."

I found myself fumbling with words I didn't have. I really wasn't sure what I wanted to say to her that I hadn't already. It just felt like there had to be something.

"Listen," I said as I looked down at the ground, "I just wanted to say thank you … again, I guess. For everything. I really am sorry that it ended up like this."

It just sounded so patronizing, and straight out of … some book. The whole still-want-to-be-friends thing, but it was the truth. It wasn't just something to say.

By this point and time I'd realized, in terms of ex girlfriends anyway, that I'd actually always come off somewhat fortunate. There had always been a clear line defining appropriate behavior following my previous breakups. Either because I had been used or—well, because they were just plain crazy.

Here, however, there were all sorts of significant considerations. Considerations that even a careless sentence or two could convey any number of wrong impressions.

"I know," she said quietly, not looking like I was making her any happier.

"And …" I struggled for a moment, "I really do think you're … really a great person, and I still want to be friends … I know how that sounds, but I'm serious. If you ever want to hang out or anything, or just talk … but if not, I understand, too."

She looked for a moment like she was going to say something, but hesitated and then nodded a little.

"I …" was running out things to say. Not that anything I was saying seemed to be coming out right. I had all these honest words, and they weren't faring so well against this barrier. "I just want you … to be okay," I managed softly.

Amelia looked over my shoulder. I briefly turned and saw that Sam was at Carly's locker, hugging her. Carly would be leaving pretty soon, I remembered.

I looked back at Amelia and found her gazing up at me.

"You don't have to worry about me," Amelia answered. She rallied together a brave smile, "It'll be okay."

And I realized that's what I wanted to show her the most. That this wouldn't last, she'd move on and find someone, someone probably better than me. And she'd be happier than I could ever make her.

But I didn't have to show her that, because she already knew.

She was the one who had shown me, after all.

I smiled. "Merry Christmas, Amelia."

"Merry Christmas, Freddie."

Then there was the dilemma of whether or not a hug would be overly awkward. But at the way she looked I realized that it would seem insincere if I didn't. So for a brief moment I held her close, and then she was smiling, almost looking better. Then she shut her locker and carefully turned and walked away.

I watched her. The longing for different circumstances was a hollow one. On a day like this, the worst thing I wish she had to worry about was how many cups of eggnog to have.

I slowly turned and headed for Carly. Sam was already gone. By now the hall was thinning as the bell approached, but I wasn't overly concerned about that, especially today.

"So you all set?" I asked as I leaned in the spot that Sam had just vacated.

"I think so," Carly answered brightly, because she hadn't been able to be anything but bright since she'd boisterously announced that she was dropping most of her heavy classes for next semester--and quite possibly for the remainder of her High School career.

She put her backpack on. "Spencer's already outside waiting."

"You guys going straight to the airport?" I asked, looking up as the bell rang.

"Yup, and then non stop to Virginia," she said, smiling, even as her responsible face was attempting to creep in, "That's the bell isn't it? Shouldn't you be getting to class?"

"Nah, Ms. Brown isn't going to care all that much today," I smiled, "I just wanted to say good bye. I hope you have a good trip."

"Yeah," she said quietly, "You have a good break too. And … it'll only be two weeks. It'll be over before we know it."

I gave a tight smile as she leaned forward and I hugged her. We stayed there for a moment, before she was beaming again as she shut her locker.

"And try not to have too much fun," she laughed, "What with your mom's party and you and Sam being all alone for two whole weeks."

"I'll try," I smiled again.

And with another round of goodbyes she was walking down the hall and away.

I stood there for a moment, where the voices echoed from other places and I was maybe a little bit too warm in the sweater I had on. But this … this was a nice place. One that struck me as worth remembering.

--

It was a subdued sort of tizzy that the party negotiated itself in. Subdued because the guests my mom had managed to drag here were hardly thrilled about it, to say the least. But it was a tizzy nonetheless and by default because my mother was involved.

"Freddie, where are the veggie cakes? I thought I just set them right—"

"I put them back in the fridge, mom," I answered with some exasperation, "They're right in there with the rest of the cold stuff. It's okay, it's not like we're going to run out of food."

"Sweetie, we need to keep the food out," she informed me as she flew to the refrigerator, "The Mercers should be here any minute and … they said they would be—oh, would you please take out the trash, please? It's overflowing—and make sure to double wash your hands after—"

I'd almost been free of the kitchen at this point, having clung to the hope of escaping before something like this could be laid on me. Escaping to the living room where all our morose guests were gathered, where all the fun was.

It really was a miserable turnout. I felt pretty guilty about predicting that fact, and the only reaction my mom knew for situations like these—to valiantly tizzy even more—made me feel terrible. Awful actually, especially after all this time and effort and hope she'd put into this. I'd already told her that it was okay, that _I _was having fun—even though that was only true while I was out in the living room.

I was afraid that she was going to half break down when it was all over. I wasn't nearly as certain about that prediction, and I prayed that I was wrong. But if she did … I would be here—even beyond the guarantee that I was going to have to help clean all this up.

"Yes, mother," I said as I grabbed the bag out of the wastebasket. "Overflowing" turned out to be something of an overstatement. It was barely to the top, but it wasn't as if my mom allowed such scandalous activities as crushing the trash back down.

But as I quickly fled, even/especially as she went on about something else, I found that I didn't really mind it. That was something remarkable, actually, considering how badly I'd rather be in the living room right now.

True to cruel fate, Christmas break was already almost over, and I'm not sure exactly where it had gone. The presents were long discovered and pillaged, the checklist of holiday meals eaten, and the absence of school was rapidly coming to a close.

This was such a mind-boggling dilemma that it took up most of my available preoccupation during my trash run. I mean, I understood _why_ it had happened; it was the how that was difficult to comprehend.

I returned to our "party" and plopped down beside the why. The why was currently slouched out in the corner of the sofa, idly browsing on my laptop. She didn't bother looking up at me as I scooted in towards her and put my arm around the corner of the couch, where some of her hair was splayed out offhandedly.

"Did you wash your hands?" she asked tonelessly, frowning at the screen. I noted that she was playing some Flash game involving fleas.

I looked at her in such a way that it was disappointing she missed it. "I didn't touch anything. When was the last time _you_ washed your hands?"

Sam twisted a little bit and reached behind herself, pulling out a small stocking. She took out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and gave it to me. "Since your mom handed out door presents for this rocking party."

I groaned as I took it.

Staring down at her as I grudgingly sanitized my hands, I came again to the fact that I had absolutely no conception of just how deeply she was affecting everything. And how much she would. I had a pretty good conception of having no conception of it, but that was about it.

But staring, bluntly staring at her now, I found that was okay.

Sitting there, with the hushed chatter of the scant turnout, and my mom rushing around in the misguided efforts of pleasing everyone, and this girl who was sitting beside me with a frown and a tone all of her own, I once again discovered that it _was_ okay.

"Hey, did you know that these keys could pop off?" Sam asked suddenly as her game ended.

"Yes, I—ugh, what did you do?" I asked as I yanked my laptop out of her hands.

"See, I spelled 'warts' on the top row, and—" she started, taking no pains to hide that she was immensely enjoying my reaction.

"Yes, I can see that," I ground out as I started to pull off the misplaced keys and return them to their proper place—because she'd just _had_ to spell out a word on each row, not to mention switch the arrow keys around, and—

I discovered that I didn't really care as much as custom dictated. Giving up, I shut my laptop and tossed it off to the side of the couch.

She was still lounging, with her hair half everywhere and a lazy smile on her face as she poked at me with one finger. "I think I like seeing you all angry and nerdy," she commented idly.

"I thought you just plain liked seeing me angry," I replied as I slouched down beside her and put my right arm back over the top of the couch.

She made a face as she straightened up some, "Yeah, I guess I'm not picky."

I wasn't sure what she was doing until she leaned forward a bit and then back, half onto my chest and half onto my shoulder.

I couldn't get over how wonderful this sort of thing felt, every time. It was more than just her hair all over the place, more than her warmth and the feeling of her slowly breathing against me. It was more than that uncontrollable urge to wrap my arms all around her. More than that she cared to be here at all, with me. It was just this wonderful feeling in general, I guess.

She reached over for my left hand and took it in both of hers. She began to examine it, turn it over this way and that in hers, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

We talked noncommittally about school, and the depressing approach of it. And some other stuff. I kept half an eye on the time, as it slipped towards midnight. The other guests seemed to rouse themselves somewhat as it grew closer.

"So … what?" Sam asked softly, eyeing the other people, "Are they all going to leave as soon as the countdown's done?"

"Probably," I murmured. I squeezed one of her hands. "I'm sorry that I dragged you into this."

She tilted her head back far enough so that she could look up at me. "What? Do you think I'd rather be at home?"

"No," I frowned a little, "But I'm sure there's somewhere else you'd rather be."

She smiled softly, shaking her head a little, but her response took a few seconds to come.

"No."

My fingers rubbed at hers, and I looked back down into her eyes, trying and feverishly hoping to communicate even a fraction of what this was like to me. I don't think it was exactly possible, to a satisfactory degree anyway, but I tried. And she continued to look back at me in a way that made it a whole lot easier.

The countdown hit a minute, and my mom really hit on the pre-countdown preparations. People began to move and talk a little more.

Sam was suddenly looking down. "You know …" she said with a hesitant sort of voice, "It would be pretty unoriginal if you tried to kiss me at midnight … or anything like that."

I couldn't help smiling. Even at the relatively fresh and surrealistically undisputable notion that she could ever want me to kiss her.

"I agree," I said, trying for a serious tone.

She looked back up at me, her eyes so blue and surprised. I think my attempt succeeded.

The count was somewhere around half a minute.

Before she could realize what I was going to do, I lowered my head and dropped my lips to hers.

How anything could be so soft, I have no idea. Or stirring, or wonderful, or right.

And as our third kiss proceeded, the one we'd been putting off for so long, I was sort of surprised to discover how uncertain she was.

She actually ... didn't seem like she knew quite exactly what she was doing.

Wow. Could it be possible I was better than her at something—like this?

But that was okay. There was plenty of time.

Midnight hit and the rest of the party sorta caught up.

And ... I think I kind of liked it that way.

--

**AN:** Whew. Wow. Done. As of this moment this is the second longest iCarly story. I looked. Ugh.

I seriously could go on and on about all the behind the scenes stuff, but that probably wouldn't be a good idea. This story + other stuff really has burned me out though, and I really didn't accomplish what I wanted to with this. But then again, this would be the part where the REAL rewriting and editing would start. Plus I just can not write very well with other people's characters, so I'll plead the fifth (... if that's even applicable).

But the one thing I really think I did about as well as I had hoped was with Amelia. From the beginning I wanted a plausible alternative/threat for Freddie outside of Sam. The BIGGEST thing was I really wanted her to be a nice person, and completely get away from that whole angle of discovering later on that the boy/girlfriend is evil somehow and obviously should be dumped (which isn't exactly lazy, but it _has_ happened in both instances of Freddie/Sam relationships). The only reason I wanted it to not work was that they just weren't for each other.

Aha! And I found my first idea note for this story: "Sam and Freddie sick w/ same thing, have to stay at his house. Sam in pajamas, cranky, at his computer, sleeps in his bed, hold hands, etc. New girl Freddie dates, perfect but not annoying."

On another character note, I discovered once again that Carly really is such an underappreciated character (at least I regularly underappreciate her). I think she's often overlooked because next to Sam, who has all the best lines plus interesting character flaws, and Cosgrove next to McCurdy (due to acting chops), it's pretty easy to do. In fact, it's _so _easy that I literally forgot to wrap up her subplot until literally right this second--literally. Sorry if it's a little half baked.

But ... I think the best moment of all this actually turned out to be the Carly/Freddie thing at the end of 11, especially because it just sort of happened. I did not plan it at all. It turned out better than the next chapter where Freddie gets beat up, which really was one of the earliest precursors to this whole story (along with the sick together opening). Another thing that just sorta happened was Nathan as a character. I don't know if you guys liked him or not, or even remember him by this point (and I _had _intended to put him in more), but I was sort of impressed, if only because he came out of nowhere, from a bit part that wasn't supposed to be anything important. Just someone to say a couple plot lines.

Lastly, I would of course like to thank everyone who reviewed this, especially as it went on. It really means a lot, and I especially thank those who were especially awesome bits of incredible: ColorsOfTheSky101, MewNacho, lilerin91, PamplemousseRose, hyperactivecheskie, and geez, there are so many. So how about I just thank everyone, again. And again. I really so deeply appreciate it.


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